


Mucho Masturbation

by Gildedmuse



Category: Rent (2005), Rent - Larson
Genre: Challenge Response, Light Bondage, M/M, Masturbation, Merry Month of Masturbation Challenge, Originally Posted on LiveJournal, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-11
Updated: 2019-05-11
Packaged: 2020-03-01 05:35:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 34,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18794032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gildedmuse/pseuds/Gildedmuse
Summary: Roger can't help but think about Mark, even when Mark is apparently thinking about someone else.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> [Originally posted to LJ in 2006]

It’s no big secret that Mark masturbates.

 

Every guy does it, no matter how righteous or proud they act. No matter how clean or innocent they pretend to be. Mark has seen three year old boys walking down the streets with their hands down their pants, much to the chagrin of their embarrassed mothers. When Mark first moved into the loft with three other guys, none of whom were currently with anyone, you could be sure at least one of them was beating off every night, and probably one in the shower the next morning. It’s not as if Mark is alone in this.

 

Collins never tries to hide the fact the he masturbates. “The point of fantasies,” He explains, as if Mark is one of his students. Mark doesn’t mind. He always feels like he’s learning when he talks to Collins. “Is that they can possess all the great things that you can never have, never even knew you wanted.”

 

Collins laughs, something Collins prone to do a lot. It’s a good counter balance to Roger’s occasionally slippery mood swings. “Those business men and middle class works who sit around jerking off to porn, to pictures, they’re missing the point,” Collins says. “In here,” he taps his temple, “that’s where all the fantasies are. There are things that no magazine can touch.”

 

“All those things you’re afraid of doing. All those people you can never have. Anything possible.” Mark laughs, feeling the hint of blush creeping around his cheeks. Collins is smiling at him as if he knows what Mark’s embraced about. Mark can only pray he’s wrong. “You can fuck Cleopatra,” Collins says. “You can spank Socrates. You can have an orgy of space aliens and mermaids and the whole of the Chinese army.”

 

The way Collins explains it he makes masturbation sound like some sort of art form.

 

*

 

When he first moves into the loft, Mark shares a room with Roger. There are no beds, so both boys just curled up on the floor with a pile of blankets. Mark is usually the first to fall asleep after spending all day running around town searching for the perfect place to film. Roger stays up to work on his newest song. This is how it works for the first few months.

 

Then one night Mark just can’t get to sleep.

 

He tosses and turns and counts sheep until he feels like he can never wear wool again. It’s not until he tries laying completely still that Mark starts to hear those little noises coming from the other side of the room. Sighs and moans mixed with the ruffling of covers and the sound of skin on skin. Soft sounds that start to build up, breaths turning raspy and irregular.

 

He goes completely ridged, having no idea what to say or do. Does he speak up and let Roger know he can hear him? Does he act like he’s asleep? Does he leave the room?

 

Roger’s not holding back. From the corner of his eye, Mark can barely make out the dark shape of the other boy lifting his hips off the floor, thrusting into his hand. The whole room is filled with moans and low cries. Mark decides the best course of action is to close his eyes and pretend he’s not hearing this.

 

A few minutes later, Roger comes with a strangled whine. Mark keeps his eyes shut, waiting for the shuffling on the other side of the room to quiet down. It feels like he doesn’t so much as breathe until he hears Roger’s snoring.

 

Next morning, Mark is the first one in the shower.

 

*

 

Collins words about fantasies pollute Mark’s head.

 

Alone in his room, Mark doesn’t let anything like his conscious bother him. With his pants pulled down and his hand wrapped around his erection, Mark just lets himself go. Behind his eyelids millions of suggestions and half finished scenarios flicker in and out. Mark doesn’t worry about whatever his mind comes up with. Fantasies are not about being realistic and restrained.

 

So he doesn’t panic when Roger is the first image his mind settles on.

 

Yesterday Roger had laughed and called Mark an idiot for getting so caught up in writing a screenplay that he’d missed his subway exit. Now Roger is laughing in his ear, hands rubbing up and down Mark’s thighs as he pushes them apart. Now Roger’s breath is hot against his skin, teeth bared and nibbling at his neck. Now Roger is teasing, hands not quite touching skin but close enough that Mark can feel them and wants them and will beg for them.

 

There’s a flicker of worry. Maybe in his fantasies he’s just a little to eager to let Roger control him. Maybe he shouldn’t be picturing his best friend’s thigh pushed between his legs, bumping and grinding against Mark while wearing that almost cruel smile, laughing when Mark whimpers and whines. There has to be something wrong for him to want that.

 

In fantasies, though, none of that really matters. It’s all just make believe and harmless, so it can’t hurt to have Roger treat him like a slut, to tie Mark to the bed and gag his mouth, to thrust into him hard enough to make him bleed. With his cock in hand and these imagines filling his head, it’s hard for Mark to worry about anything for too long.

 

*

 

It’s only a matter of time before he gets caught.

 

In the shower, Mark once again tries to convince himself to think about Maureen: his beautiful, fiery girlfriend. It seems stupid, though, to waist a fantasy on something you already have. So Mark’s mind turns to the less realistic. He’s not in the shower, leaning against the cold titles to keep himself steady as he works his own erection. He’s in a dark room, backstage somewhere. CBGB’s maybe, but it really doesn’t matter. It’s dark, and Mark’s mind doesn’t worry about details. Like what exactly it is his hands are tied too. Leather binds or handcuffs, something is holding his wrists together. Twisted above his head, Mark doesn’t think about what is keeping them up. He just knows that he doesn’t want to be able to move them. That Roger doesn’t want him to be able to move.

 

His knees are digging into hard concrete, but he doesn’t think about the pain so it isn’t there. Instead he’s concentrating more on how fucking hard he is, how he can twist and turn all he like and not free himself. He’s legs are pushed apart and he doesn’t try to close them, knowing that Roger wouldn’t like that.

 

In the shower, Mark gets a mouth full of water when he tosses his head back and moans. Just the thought of Roger wanting to see him like that is enough to send a jolt of pleasure through him. That’s what he really wants, for Roger to want him.

 

Cold fingers trace their way down his spine. Mark pushes against the touch, and Roger immediately pulls back. Even if in the fantasy Roger is behind Mark, the real Mark can still see the way his eyes travel up and down the other boy’s skin, mischievous and commanding. He smacks Mark across the ass, tisking under his breath. “You know better than that, Marky.”

 

A cold nose nuzzles against his neck, and Mark has to bite down on his lip to keep himself still. “If you want this, you have to play by the rules.”

 

“Sorry,” Mark mutters, and in the shower Mark’s lips move to whisper that word. “I just… Please, Roger. Hurry?”

 

“You’ve been spending to much time with Maureen,” Roger growls. Mark can’t help but jump when Roger bites down on his shoulder. A shiver passes through his as his friend begins to suck at the aching skin. “She’s such a whore, Mark. What do you even see in her?”

 

Mark has seen the way Roger reacts every time April bushes against another guy. That predatory look in his eyes, the sneer he has to fight back. Roger is too quick to get jealous. Mark wants him to be like that for him, to hate Maureen as much as he hates all those guys April dances with. Here in the dark, empty room Mark’s mind has constructed, nothing stops Roger for acting out. Nothing holds him back from marring skin, proving ownership.

 

Mark had long ago stop worrying about why he wants Roger to control him. It’s not just Roger. After all, look at the way Maureen teats him and he always goes back to her.

 

His mind always goes back to Roger, though. Roger’s hands ghosting across his stomach. Roger’s cock pressed against the small of his back. Roger’s voice in his ear, laughing at Mark’s desperation. “It really has been too long.” Mark is beyond answering. A small whimper is torn from his throat, and he can only hope Roger knows what he needs.

 

Of course, in his imagination Roger knows exactly what Mark needs. He just won’t give it to him. Not yet.

 

Lips move against his earlobe. “Calm down,” Roger says, voice soft and commanding. Mark squeezes his eyes closes as he tries to obey. With Roger pressed against him and his hands teasing Mark’s skin, it’s hard not to want. “I have a surprise.”

 

Mark’ already knows what it is, but in his mind his eyes go wide and his heart speeds up when Dan steps out of the dark.

 

Black, messy hair and bright blue eyes, the drummer is about the same height as Mark and slightly stockier. It’s not as if Mark likes him, or even knows him that well. They only time they every talk is when Mark drops in on Roger’s practices, and the other boy has yet to say more than ten words to Mark. That doesn’t stop him from wanting him though, from wanting this.

 

Dan’s smile is nearly identical to Roger’s. He kneels down in front of Mark, those blue eyes looking like danger as they scan over Mark’s body. “Fuck you were right,” Dan says, meeting Mark’s eyes. It’s breath taking, the blue turning darker. “Very fuckable.”

 

Mark can feel Roger’s smirk against his neck. “Go for it.” He grabs Mark’s chin, tilting his head up and offering him to the drummer.

 

These fantasies hardly ever involve kissing, but Mark lets himself slip on this one. Dan’s lips press against his, and Mark can feel how eager the other boy is as he licks his way into Mark’s mouth, teasing and pushing and dominating, just like Roger told him too. Half of the excitement is imagining that Roger wants this, wants to watch Mark be taken. The other part, well Mark wants to know what its like pushed between these two bodies. With the outline of Dan’s erection through his jeans digging into Mark’s own cock. Roger’s skin slippery with sweat as he rubs up and down Mark’s back.

 

His mind tries to construct the feeling of skin on skin on jeans, but comes out short. All Mark can do is wonder at how good it would feel, back pressed against cold title and hot water streaming down his front. The idea will have to be enough.

 

Mark hesitates before he starts kissing Dan back. It doesn’t take long for a hand to thread its way in Mark’s hair. Moaning, he presses forward against this new boy, thinking the touch means Dan wants more. Instead he gets yanks back, slamming back against Roger. It’s a shot of pain, and Mark doesn’t mind at all. He whimpers, eyes slowly fluttering open as the sting and the lack of contact settle in.

 

Dan looks just as shocked, lips shimmering with spit and eyes turned a dark sea blue. In his ear, Mark can hear Roger growl. Of course, it’s Mark’s fault that the kiss ended. He shouldn’t have acted so needy. He shouldn’t have seemed so eager to kiss Dan back.

 

Slowly, Roger uncurls his fingers from Mark’s blond hair. “You okay?” He whispers, and Mark somehow manages a weak nod. He strokes Mark’s head, petting the sore skin beneath the hair. “He’s only for fun, alright?”

 

Mark shouldn’t allow himself to think about this, either. He’s letting himself slip far too much nowadays, but it feels good to have Roger be gentle with him.

 

Mark nods again, lips moving in silent agreement. Roger’s hand slips out of his hair, back down Mark’s spine. The smaller boy gasp, arching away when Roger’s finger presses up into his entrances. With his chin resting on Mark’s shoulder, he gives Dan a warning look. “He’s mine.”

 

Roger curls his finger, and Mark nearly screams. He manages to choke out a breathy sounding, “yes.” Yes, he is Roger’s. Yes, he wants this. Yes, more, please, yes.

 

Still thrusting in and out of Mark, Roger doesn’t take his eyes of Dan. “Want him to suck you off?” Another curl of his finger, and Mark has to bite down hard enough on his lip that even back in the real world Mark can feel the pain.

 

“Yes,” he answers, moving with Roger now, and Roger’s not stopping him. He’s letting Mark push back into his hand, scissoring his fingers as he gets the other boy ready. Mark’s voice cracks every time he tries to speak, but he can’t help but answer Roger. “Yes, please.”

 

“What about sucking him off?” Roger asks, low and hoarse like when he’s getting his audience at a show riled up. Mark has gone to Roger’s shows just to memorize that voice. “Would you like that?”

 

Two fingers curl against that spot, and Mark really is screaming now. “Yes. God. Yes. Roger.”

 

Roger’s laughter is somewhere between amused and cruel. It sends chills down Mark’s spine. Keeping his eyes on Dan, Roger tells his drummer, “He really likes cock.”

 

Dan is rubbing himself through his jeans. His eyes aren’t fixed on Roger, but watching Mark move against his friend’s hand. Half of the fun of these fantasies is being the center of attention, having Roger and Dan want him like this. Mark makes himself out to be slutty and wanton and needy so that he’s all these guys can think about. “Apparently.” Dan is slipping out of his jeans, pushing himself to his feet.

 

Roger tells Mark to open his eyes, and Mark didn’t even realize he had them closed. The wet tip of Dan’s cock swipes against his lips and hand curls into his hair. Staring down into Mark’s eyes, he looks just as desperate as Mark feels. “Come on,” he says, “You want this.”

 

Back in the shower, Mark is bracing himself against the wall to keep from slipping. His head has become a mess, trying to comprehend the taste of Dan’s dick pushing into his mouth as Roger spreads his legs wider, whispering about what a slut Mark is, how good he looks, how Roger is going to make sure Mark never wants to sleep with anyone ever again after Roger gets through fucking him. His hand is curled around his cock moving to an erratic rhythm. The same pace Roger is going using in his mind. Dan is pushing down his throat, unable to speak as Mark swallow and sucks. It’s just a fantasy, so the feeling of Roger slipping into him isn’t hindered by rubber. It’s all skin and sweat and cum as Roger pumps into him, hitting that spot every time.

 

Mark is brought back to reality by his own strangled cry. He feels boneless when he collapses, letting himself slide down to the floor. The water is completely cold, but it feels perfect against his hot, sticky skin.

 

“What is taking so fucking long?” Before he can even begin to appreciate the afterglow, Roger pulls back the bathroom curtain. He leans against the wall, plastic bunched in his hand as stares at Mark, who is scrambling to get to his feet. “You’re using up all the hot water.”

 

Mark knows he must look guilty, covered in cum and unable to meet Roger’s eyes. Fantasies can’t be limited, but when actually face to face with Roger it feels a lot less like an art form and more like a crime.

 

“Sorry,” Mark mutters. His apology is a lot less sexy in real life. Suddenly, the icy water doesn’t feel so great. If anything, Mark thinks he might be sick.

 

Roger rolls his eyes, letting the curtain go. It doesn’t do much to hide Mark. “Whatever. Some of us don’t have girlfriends, and kind of need it more than you.”

 

It’s not like Mark is the only one who masturbates, and Roger isn’t exactly quiet about his habits. None of this is news to Mark. Still the comment makes Mark turn a deep red. He stumbles to get out of the bathtub, grabbing a towel and covering himself as quickly as possible. “Sorry,” he repeats.

 

Roger is already stripping down, which is unfair. How can Mark not be expected not to stare when Roger is pulling down his jeans. He bites his tender lower lip, not quite able to pull himself away when Roger is pulling off his shirt.

 

He really needs to get a new fantasy. Didn’t Collins say something about Socrates once? That seemed a whole lot safer.

 

“Something wrong?” Shit.

 

“Umm…” Mark looks away as quickly as possible, even if he’s already been caught staring. His mind reels with excuses, but none of them stick out as being particularly believable. “No, just…” He trails off, having no idea what he can say.

 

“They’re not gone yet.” From the corner of his eye, Mark can see Roger’s jeans and boxers in a pile.

 

“Huh?” Mark asks, because he isn’t able to think about much other than the fact that him and Roger are naked in the same room together. Not that they’d never been before, but it usually wasn’t so close to one of Mark’s sessions. The guilt is really crushing. It reminds him of living at home.

 

“The track marks,” Roger answers. “They’re not faded. Not all of them.”

 

“Oh.” If there is a single thing that could have made Mark feel more ashamed then he had been, it’s that. Not only was he in the shower jerking off to images of his best friend, it just happened to be his best friend who is just starting to recover from heroin after loosing his girlfriend.

 

Roger sighs, and Mark can almost feel his roommate’s blood start to boil. He’s getting good at recognizing when Roger’s about to get anger. It seems that almost anything can set off his friend’s temper nowadays, and no one can find it to blame Roger for this. “Look, if you-“

 

“I’m gone,” Mark says, wrapping the towel tight around his waist. “Have fun.” It’s the only thing Mark can come up with as he lets the bathroom door slam shut behind him.

 

He is going to have to get over Roger.

 

*

 

“Good one?”

 

Mark is trying to towel dry his hair when he steps out of the bathroom. In winter he would stay in there as long as possible, dreading to step out into the chill of the apartment. It’s spring now, and Mark is a little less afraid of icicles forming on his skin. “What do you mean?”

 

Roger gives Mark a wicked look. It’s the sort of thing Mark missed when Roger had been going through withdraw. “You were in there for half an hour,” Roger says. “I know you don’t have that much hair.”

 

“Oh,” Mark is past embarrassment of being caught at this point. Still, it’s an awkward subject to bring up with Roger. He never did quite get over that stage. Not when Maureen broke up with him, and she could have been his fantasy. Not when Roger dated Mimi, and proved he head no interest in Mark. It’s one of those things Mark has learned to just accept.

 

He wants Roger to tie him up and fuck him. Simple as that.

 

Still, no need for Roger to know about this.

 

Roger rolls his eyes. He pushes himself off the couch, walking over to stand next to Mark so that he can fix him with a curious look. Roger figured out long ago that his presence next to Mark when either isn’t closed tends to make Mark nervous, which is what he wants. Roger has chalked this up to Mark’s low confidence after Maureen left him. Mark wraps the towel around his waist, because he knows better than to think Maureen has anything to do with it. “So, who is it?”

 

Mark looks between Roger and his room. Roger is leaning against the doorframe of the bathroom, ready to block Mark’s exit. Even worse, Mark won’t be able to get past him without touching him. “What?” He repeats, caught off guard by Roger’s question. He looks back in the bathroom to make sure there is no one else there.

 

“Come on,” Roger says, tossing up his hands in frustration. “You do this like every other day now. There has to be someone you’re thinking of. Who is it?”

 

“Roger,” Mark warns, snapping his mouth shut when he realizes how that might sound. As quick as possible he adds, “No one. There’s no one.” Mark moves to leave and Roger sticks his leg up, blocking the door.

 

“Not until you tell me,” Roger says, wagging a finger when Mark glares at him. “Who is the girl our little Marky has his eyes on?”

 

Mark sighs and tries to push Roger’s leg out of the way. Roger stands up, and figuring that means he can leave Mark tries to slip out the door only to have Roger move to stand firmly in the middle of Mark’s only escape route, arms braced against either side of the door.

 

He doesn’t push Mark, but Mark ends up jumping back anyway, nearly falling on the slippery bathroom floor. Unless Mark feels like charging at Roger he is officially trapped. “Wanna play twenty questions?” Roger asks, a very determined look on his face to attest to the fact that Mark will not be getting out of here unless he gives answers.

 

It’s unfair. Mark is being trapped in the bathroom by his best friend, forced to answer questions that can only lead to trouble, and all he can think is that it’s fucking hot. Roger looming above him, that mischievous grin on his face and dominating attitude. It shouldn’t make Mark’s stomach twist the way it does, but suddenly Mark needs to crawl back in the shower for another half an hour.

  
  


Trying to stay as calm as possible, Mark says, “Not really.” He takes a step towards Roger to see if that helps. Roger doesn’t even flinch.

 

“Is it Maureen?” Roger asks. “Is that who you wanna sleep with?”

 

“No!” Mark tries to make it sound like the idea is digesting. That might be a bit of a lie. Mark never stopped wanting Maureen, not after all the times she hurt him and a good year after the break up. It’s cliché, and it’s stupid, but part of him would always be hers to keep. She made damn sure of that when she was dating him.

 

Roger seems to pick up on the untruthfulness. He raises an eyebrow, his grin so wide it seems to who off every one of his teeth. “Maureen and Joanne?”

 

Mark makes a face, and this time he’s not lying. “No! God, Roger!” Sleeping with Maureen again would be one thing. He’s sure that if he even suggested a threesome Joanne would rip of his balls. She’s very protective of her girlfriend like that.

 

Roger takes a second to think through a list of girls the boy’s knew. “Tiffany from Cat Scratch Club?” Roger asks. Mark shakes his head. Tiffany is nice enough, and fucking gorgeous, and would probably sleep with Mark if he were the last guy in the universe. Probably. “Amanda… She’s the one you’re filming with, right?” Mark nods, and Roger breaks out into this giant smile. “I knew-“

 

“NO!” Mark shouts, putting up his hands before Roger can say anymore. “I mean, yes I work with her but no… Just no. She’s married, you know.”

 

Roger snorts. “She sure didn’t act like she was married.” It’s true that most married women do not lean against guy’s laps or keep adjusting their shirts to show off as much cleavage as possible.

 

“Just because she flirted with you doesn’t mean she’s cheating,” Mark points out. “Everyone flirts with you.”

 

Roger rolls his eyes. “Whatever. So is it that girl from the life café? The waitress with the red and yellow hair?” Mark wrinkles his nose and shakes his head. Not that Nessa isn’t sweet, she’d supplied Mark with more free tea than he’d ever be able to drink, but the last thing he needs is to be a part of another Jewish family. “Peri? Lucy? That girl on the third floor?”

 

“Who?” Mark asks, not even sure he knows who the girls Roger are listing are. He shakes his head. “No, it’s none of them. Look, Roger I need-“

 

“It’s not Mimi, is it?” Suddenly Roger doesn’t look half as playful. Even after the break up, which Roger swears had been mutual, he gets protective of any guy he suspects of even looking at Mimi. Everyone’s fairly certain that this is the reason the two ended it in the first place, but no one is insane enough to push the topic with either.

 

That does it. Mark clinches his fist, trying not to get to anger, but it’s too late. Playing the guessing game with his love life is one thing, accusing Mark of wanting Mimi is quite another. “I would never do that, Roger!” How could his best friend even suspect Mark of doing something like that? He knows how Roger felt about her, and Roger should know that Mark would never do something that would hurt him.

 

Without even thinking of the results, Mark pushes against Roger, trying to get himself out of the bathroom and the situation and as far away from his friend as possible. Roger must get that Mark is at his breaking point. He backs away without a fight. “Look, Mark-“

 

“Fuck you,” Mark says, not worrying when he brushes past Roger as he storms off to his room. There were some things that not even Mark could handle without getting a little mad.

 

He doesn’t bother to put on any clothes, just flops down onto his bed. Roger shouldn’t have accused him of that. To say that Mark hasn’t done everything he can to make sure Roger is healthy and happy. Half a year of withdraw with him, you think Roger would have trusted Mark a little more than that.

 

Also, Mark might be gay.

 

It’s a scary thought. More so than the fact that Roger thinks he might be sleeping with Mimi. It hurt that Roger didn’t trust him, but Roger tends to be unreasonable when it comes to jealousy. Mark, he doesn’t want to think about the list of girls Roger had gone through, how he truly didn’t think of a single one of them when he is in the shower. Sure, fantasies were not about being realistic, but shouldn’t Mark at least have the gender right?

 

It’s been four years since he’s moved into the loft. Four years of having his mind polluted with thoughts of Roger, pictures that get more vivid and realistic with each passing month. Yet he’d never really thought about what it might mean. When he’s letting his thought drift, it’s all about the pleasure and the present. Roger with his questions, he had to make Mark actually think about it. Does jerking off in the shower to a few scenarios mean you really want some one? Couldn’t it all just be mindless satisfaction? That would make Mark’s life so much less complicated.

 

Ten minutes later when Roger knocks on his door, Mark still isn’t dressed.

 

“Sorry,” Roger says, pushing open the door after Mark doesn’t answer. Mark is lying on top is his bed, staring deadpan at the ceiling. He figured it might help him clear his head. It hasn’t.

 

Mark scoots away when Roger sprawls out next to him. He has a roll of weed between his lips. After a deep inhale, he holds it out to Mark. “Want some?” Mark just sort of stares at the offered drug. His body is still trying to catch up with his racing mind. Roger says, “I thought you might need it to calm down.”

 

Mark sighs, snatching the roll for Roger’s hand. It would be nice to calm down, even if it’s a fake calm. “Sorry for snapping,” Mark says, lifting the joint to his lips.

 

“It’s not a girl, is it?”

 

Mark ends up choking on the smoke, something he hasn’t done in years. He struggles to sit up, trying to get his lungs clear. “What?” He asks, handing the joint back to Roger so that he can pound his chest while trying to remember how to breathe.

 

Roger waits until Mark has wiped the tears from his eyes and is no longer coughing. He takes a drag and hands it back to Mark. “It’s not a girl that you’re thinking about, is it? That’s why you got so upset.”

 

Mark looks down at Roger who stares back with mild interest. He seems to be taking the news that his best friend jerks off to thoughts of guys pretty well. Better than Mark, anyway. It’s probably the marijuana. “Sort of,” Mark says, shaking his head. “It’s not like I’m- Not that there is anything- It’s just-”

 

“It’s okay,” Roger says, patting Mark on the knee. “I get it.”

 

Mark raises an eyebrow. “You do?” Mark isn’t sure he gets it. After all, he loves Maureen. He wants girls, really he does. He just wants Roger, too. Roger and a few other guys that happen to pass through his mind every now and then. Still, his stomach goes all knotty when he’s talking to a pretty girl so that had to mean something.

 

Roger shrugs. “Sure.” He turns to look at the ceiling. Mark wants to tell him that there are no answers up there. He’s look for them already, and all it gave him was a headache. “So who’s the guy?”

 

Even with Roger high and relaxed and understanding, Mark isn’t willing to tell him every thing just yet. He can’t just not answer, though, without one of them taking it as a shotgun starter for the next fight. How many guys does Mark like, though, that aren’t Roger? “Dan.” It’s the first name that comes to mind, and at least it’s a little honest.

 

“Dan?” Roger says, and Mark isn’t sure if he’s asking who that is or is just be struck dumb.

 

“Dan,” Mark repeats, nodding slowly. “You know Dan. Dan, your drummer, Dan.”

 

“Danny?” Roger asks, and Mark can tell this idea is going to take a while to sink in.

 

“Yeah,” he says. Why not? He’d certainly had Dan in his head a few times, and the boy is hot enough. Not that Mark thinks boys are all that hot. Just Dan and Roger. And that painter who works on the corner of 12th, and that one guy at the Chinese place down the street, and maybe a few others. Plenty of guys probably thought that, though.

 

Mark’s stomach twists and he has the urge to talk with Collins.

 

Roger chews at his lower lip for a while before saying, “He’s an asshole.”

 

“Really?” Mark asks, not really caring about the answer. Besides, knowing the type of things Mark tends to have Dan doing in his mind, him being an asshole would only make it worse.

 

“Yeah,” Roger says. “If you talked with him, you wouldn’t be so crazy about him.”

  
  


“I’m not crazy about him,” Mark replies. He’s certainly crazy, but Dan has nothing to do with it. He looks down at Roger, who is still stuck staring at the ceiling. “You think I’ll get over it?”

 

Roger shrugs. “I think you’ll get over him.” He looks down at the joint still dangling in Mark’s fingers. “You forget how to use that or something?”

 

Mark jumps, surprised he’s still holding the roll. “I guess I must have.”

 

“Give it,” Roger commands, and Mark’s fantasies have put him in a position where he always gives Roger exactly what he wants. He waits while Roger pushes himself up before handing over the joint. Roger probably needs it more than him, anyway. He certainly would if he had any idea what goes on in Mark’s head these days.

 

Roger nods his thanks, inhaling deep. He looks at Mark, mouth still full of smoke, and holds up what’s left of the roll. Mark shrugs and then nods. He really could use some mindless peace at the moment.

 

Mark doesn’t even question it when Roger leans in, pressing his lips against Mark’s. He opens his mouth, hands holding onto his friend’s shoulders to make sure he doesn’t fall of the bed or slip right through Roger and onto the shower floor. He isn’t sure what he said or did that got Roger to kiss him, but he’s more than willing to go with it.

 

Mark chokes on the smoke Roger blows into his mouth.

 

“Wow,” Roger comments, sitting back on his heels as Mark doubles over in a coughing fit. “You’re having a really bad time with this stuff.”

 

“Yeah,” Mark manages, eyes stinging with more tears. Shotgunning. It been years since Roger had tried that with him, back when he first moved to New York. Judging from the way his body reacts now Mark would have to make sure it is years before Roger tries that again.

 

As subtly as possible, Mark covers his lap with the towel.

 

Roger snorts, throwing the joint over the side of the bed and steeping it out. “I have to go to practice,” Roger says, crawling off the bed. “See you later, okay?”

 

“Right,” Mark called, twisting his legs so that Roger couldn’t see the tent under the blanket.

 

He really needs to get a new fantasy. The old one is getting complicated.


	2. Chapter 2

“Come on. Even you have to admit you aren’t key or anything.”

 

“Yeah, well second guitarist isn’t exactly a hot spot, is it? How many famous second guitarists can you even name?”

 

“How many bassists can you name?”

 

“You mean other than Michael Anthony, Paul McCartney, Tom Aryana or Joe Bouchard?”

 

Daniel takes a  next to Roger, holding out his half finished joint. “Need some?”

 

Roger looks between the cigarette and his arguing band mates. He sets his guitar down and takes the joint from Daniel’s hand. “What’s up with those two?” He asks, nodding towards the other band members. Simon and Theo have been at each other’s throats for the last month, and the longer the fight lasts the more trivial the arguments seem to get.

 

“Theo slept with Natalie,” Daniel explains, taking his roll back for another smoke.

 

Roger winces, picking his guitar back up as he lets the smoke out of his lungs. “Ouch.”

 

Daniel gives a slow nod and continues to watch the fight. Roger is trying to workout a few kinks in tomorrow’s set. He’s been working on this song long enough that he can play it in his sleep. That’s how it gets when you slave over a guitar and five hundred sheets of paper, searching for just the right chords. His guitar isn’t loud enough to drowned out Theo and Simon, and the notes aren’t hard or new enough to keep his mind from wondering.

 

It goes back to earlier, with Mark lying naked in bed next to Roger. It goes to the feel of Mark’s lips against his. It goes to a scene Roger hadn’t even witnessed, with Mark in the shower, panting as he stroked himself.

 

Roger looks up at Daniel who has his lips pursed around the joint, sucking in a lung full of smoke. His black hair is mangy and uncut, falling down past his eyes. His clothes are dirty and loose on his frames. He almost looks homeless, but without the beard and funky smell. There really isn’t much that is attractive about him.

 

Still, Roger tries to imagine him on his knees with Mark’s cock in his mouth. Daniel himself isn’t so important as the idea of Mark, naked and flushed and with a handful of that black, overgrown hair in his fists as he pushes into the boy’s mouth. Roger imagines Mark with these images in his head, his erection in hand as he stands under the hot water.

 

Roger shifts his guitar over his lap. Simon and Theo still haven’t let up, and Daniel is down to the last few puffs of his joint. “You know Mark?”

 

Daniel blows the smoke right into Roger’s face. “Yeah, I guess. The blond kid you hang with?”

 

“My roommate,” Roger corrects, annoyed that Daniel would call Mark a kid. Possibly just annoyed at Daniel in general. He strums a few random notes that mean nothing and don’t sound all that good when connected. It’s a hell of a lot better than the background noise of Theo and Simon. “That’s him.”

 

“Seen him around,” Daniel says with the sort of shrug to show that he’s never really thought about it. Roger is a mix of relieved and agitated. After all, Mark clearly noticed him. On the other hand, Roger can’t help but be thankful that Daniel doesn’t seem to be all that aware of the attention. The further away from Mark he stays the better. “Why?”

 

Roger shrugs. “No reason.” Only that it turns out that Mark is lusting after Daniel, and Roger has been lusting after Mark for years assuming that Mark only dated girls. So if he’s decided that Daniel is worth experimenting with his sexuality, Roger wants to know why.

 

“Did he say something about me?” Daniel asks, leaning back against his drum set.

 

Roger freezes up. “Why? Did you want him to say something about you?” Very smooth, Davis.

 

Daniel shrugs, truly looking noncommittal about the subject. “I don’t know. I guess.” With his heads twisted behind his head and his eyes closed, the smirk that Daniel sports looks practically dirty. Whatever is going on in his mind, it better not involve Mark. “He’s got a very sweet look to him, doesn’t he. Sort of ‘need you to fuck me’ look.” He opens one eye so that he can look at Roger, whose fingers are curled a little too tightly around his pick and the next notes don’t sound right. “Is he any good?”

 

Roger has always kind of liked Daniel. He comes to all the practices and shows and he’s not into arguing or whining when Roger’s life takes a downturn and the band hits a low point. It is taking a lot of Roger’s energy to keep playing through the song and not reach out to strangle his drummer. “I don’t know.”

 

“Oh,” Daniel says, looking honestly surprised to find out that Roger hadn’t even tried. This isn’t exactly true. Roger has tried, he just isn’t such a big asshole that he would push Mark into something. Not to mention that he isn’t nearly brave enough to try anything too obvious. Or anything forward at all for that matter.

 

Daniel pushes himself off his drums, running a hand through his unfixable black hair. “Figured you must have.” Roger bites down on his cheek hard enough to keep himself from attacking. He shakes his head, eyes never leaving his guitar. It gives him something to look at that isn’t Daniel’s jugular. The other boy starts to shift, looking extremely awkward as he tries to explain, “Well, I’m not, like, into guys or anything.”

 

Roger raises an eyebrow. “You just fuck them?”

 

It’s meant to be a joke, but Daniel nods. “Exactly.” He shrugs, looking up to stare at the ceiling. “I mean, I really like girls and junk but sometimes you just need to get off, right. And guys, they’re cool about it. Just fuck and go.”

 

Roger’s fingers slip and the next notes are nothing more than angry noise. He can feel himself beginning to snap. “I have to go,” Roger announces, and it sounds more like a growl than anything else. Avoiding looking at Daniel, Roger unplugs his guitar and stands to grab his coat. This seems to pull Simon and Theo out of their fight.

 

“Where you going?” Simon says, stuffing his hands in his pockets and looking as if he’d been standing around waiting for Roger to start the practice.

 

“I’ve got to go.” Roger makes sure to avoid looking at Daniel. Punching out his drummer three days before the next gig would be a bad move, even if he is telling Roger that his best friend would be nothing more than a quick way to get off.

 

“But we haven’t even started!” Theo argues, kicking at one of the mic stands. Roger knows that anger isn’t really directed at him, but Theo better not push his luck. Roger’s in the mood for a fight.

 

“Fuck it,” Roger says, slamming the door on his way out without even trying to reply.

 

He swears to himself that if Daniel comes ten feet within ten feet of Mark, he is going to kill him.

 

*

 

“Mark, aren’t you ready yet?”

 

Mark only turns around long enough to see Roger come out of his room his guitar and amp in hand before he goes back to fiddling with the tripod. It’s almost annoying how much Mark obsesses over his camera. It’s hard to be to put off though, knowing that Roger is the same way with his music. Besides, there are definitely worse things to stare at than the scrawny, blond kid bending over. He must have had those jeans since he first moved into the loft all those years ago, and even after losing so much weight they’re still a little to tight on him. Not that Roger is complaining, especially with the way the pants just seem to cling to Mark when he’s bent over like that.

 

“Just a second.” Mark says. He turns to look at Roger again, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “I think I managed to get my camera stuck.”

 

Roger’s eyes move pretty quickly to look at the ceiling. “Well, hurry,” he says, trying to put enough annoyance behind his words as possible. Mentally, Roger gives himself a first strike. Staring at your best friend’s ass is definitely against the rules.

 

“I don’t know how the hell I did this,” Mark comments. He stretches himself out so that he can look at something on the underside of the base. Roger begins fiddling with a few of the knobs on his amp, giving his eyes somewhere else to be. “How late is this thing going?”

 

“They’re dragging me to an after party,” Roger explains, and he doesn’t have to try and sound annoyed this time. After-parties were something he enjoyed with April, maybe even with Mimi, although he had been a bit more careful. It’s not that getting off the stage only to be jumped by groupies and beer isn’t fun, but with Theo and Simon at each other’s throats and Daniel being there at all the idea is slightly less appetizing.

 

“Ah,” Mark says, finally managing to slip the camera off the tripod he’d got it locked on. He turns himself back around, arching his back as he stretches his arms out. “Can I come?”

 

God, Roger would love to make Mark – “What?” His fingers twisted the knob he’d been messing with a little too hard, pulling it off. “Shit!” He concentrates on getting the equipment fixed, which is as good as an excuse as any not to look at Mark.

 

It’s been two months without Mimi, and already Roger is as horny as some high school kid just hitting puberty. It didn’t help that Mark had to go and tell him that all that time he’s been in the shower hasn’t exactly been spent innocently soaping up his hair and wondering how Maureen is doing.

 

“Can I come along?” Mark repeats, pushing himself off the floor with much care to avoid knocking down the tripod. “To the after party, I mean.”

 

There had been a time when after parties meant needles and lines and things Roger couldn’t do with Mark looking over his shoulder. “Yeah, that’s fine,” Roger says, putting the amplifier up on the table so that he can screw the knob back in place. Mark picks his camera up off the tripod and starts packing it away.

 

“Just one thing,” Roger says while Mark’s grabbing his bag. “If Theo and Simon start beating the crap out of each other on stage, don’t get it on film. The last thing we need is to end up on Buzzline again.”

 

*

 

“Hi.”

 

”Hi.”

 

“My name’s Krissy.”

 

“Mmm.”

 

“Wanna fuck?”

 

The fact that this girl is a total stranger doesn’t seem weird to Roger. Being the lead singer and guitarist of an “up-and-coming” (again) band tends to get a person these sorts of offers. There might have been a time when Roger would have already had her up against a wall, skirt bunched around her legs. Right now, he’s too busy searching the crowd to even notice she is wearing a skirt. “Not really.”

 

There’s too much blonde hair in this club and too many bodies withering on the dance floor. It takes Roger a moment to find Mark. He’s towards the back, away from all the fun and sex and drugs. He’s sitting at the bar, one hand on his camera and the other on a drink. Daniel is way to close, all but sitting in Mark’s lap.

 

Fuck.

 

The girl follows Roger’s eyes, not hard when he’s been staring for nearly a full minute. She swings the handcuffs that are chained to her wrist, snapping the free band shut. With all the music playing around them, the metal clang is soundless. “He can join us if you want,” she says.

 

Daniel isn’t even trying to act smooth about it, really. He’s all over Mark, and if that hand goes any lower Roger is going to march over there and remove it for him. ”I have to go,” he says, moving the girl aside and making a small dent in the crowd to clear a path towards the bar.

 

This girl looks honestly interested in the threesome idea. It’s kind of annoying, how she keeps staring at Mark even after Roger has all but told her to fuck off. What is it with everyone recently, treating Mark like some sort of sex object? Aren’t they all suppose to be looking at Roger like that? “He looks like he might have fun, being tied-“

 

“Fuck off,” Roger says, disappearing into the crowd. That officially ends their conversation.

 

It’s too loud in the club to hear what Daniel is saying until Roger is practically hovering over them, and by then all he can register is, “Roger!” before he gets an arm full of Mark.

 

Over his friend’s shoulder, Roger glares at Dan, and fuck it if the other boy think he’s acting like a jealous boyfriend. He needs to keep his hands off Mark. It’s enough with Theo and Simon growling at each other all through practices without adding Daniel versus Roger to the list.

 

Daniel is eyeing Mark’s ass and oblivious to Roger’s glower. If he keeps staring like that, Roger isn’t going to have much of a choice. He’s going to have to start looking for a new drummer because this one is about to be dead meat.

 

Mark, a slightly drunk Mark, is still hugging Roger. Not so much hugging as wrapping himself around Roger, and he can feel every inch of the other boy’s front pressed against him. If Roger finds out Daniel had bought even one of those beers with even the hint of an idea of taking advantage of Mark they are going to have to pry Roger off his bloody and beaten corpse.

 

Roger swallows down a moan and takes a step back before Mark notices the effect he’s having on Roger’s low regain. Mark just picks up his beer and sits back down. Daniel smiles, scooting a little closer to Mark, placing a hand on Mark’s leg when their stools finally clang together and shake both boys up. It’s a little too possessive and purposeful for Roger’s liking.

 

“You were great,” Mark says. It shouldn’t upset Roger that his friend isn’t totally trashed, but he isn’t even slurring and Daniel’s hand is still on his thigh. At least if he was drunk he would have an excuse. “You should have heard the crowd, I mean, really hear them Roger. They were loving you.” Daniel’s fingers are a little too restless against Mark’s leg. The filmmaker wiggles, but doesn’t knock them away. “While I was shouting, I got these girls on camera. I think they were about to jump on stage. I mean it was a really great show.” When Dan leans a little closer, fingers running up to the waistband, Mark doesn’t even shy away. “It’s was fucking amazing, the new songs. You- Hey, what are you-”

 

Something in Roger just snaps.

 

With what little control he has he realizes that punching out his drummer after their show would probably be fair PR among the crowd, but sure as hell won’t help them get any more gigs at local clubs. It’s a lot safer to grab Mark by the shirt, yanking him off the stool and away from Daniel’s hands.

 

This time, Daniel definitely gets the point. Mark yelps, cling to Roger’s shirt as he nearly falls over his own feet. Roger has his fist wrapped into Mark’s shirt so tight falling might have strangled the filmmaker. Dan raises his hands in surrender. “I didn’t-“

 

“Fuck off,” Roger growls, turning to storm out of the club and dragging Mark behind him. For the second time that night, this works as a rather efficient way of ending the conversation.

 

The second they’re outside the club and away from the crowd Roger slams Mark against the wall, pinning him in place. Shock really only begins to cover the look on Mark’s face. He doesn’t even make an attempt struggling to get away. “Roger, what’s-“

 

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” This is exactly the sort of behavior that Mimi couldn’t stand, but Roger really can’t think about being reasonable right now. His mind is too wrapped up in the images of Daniel and Mark tangled together, naked and panting and how could Mark let Dan touch him like that? “You decide you like guys and that gives you the right to act like some sort of slut!”

 

Roger regrets the words the second they’re out of his mouth, but what can he do? Mark isn’t even looking at him anymore, his eyes focusing on the sidewalk. Roger wishes Mark would at least yell back. It would make Roger feel a hell of a lot better than the non-responsiveness. Roger knows he has no right to get this angry over some harmless flirting, especially when Mark isn’t even with him. “I just…” Roger slams his hand against the brick wall inches from Mark’s face, thinking maybe the pain will snap him out of it. At least imagining that it would feel better if the bricks were Dan’s face. “You can’t do that Mark, okay? You’re better than that!”

 

Mark is still avoiding eye contact. Roger sighs, leaning in so that he can rest his forehead against the cold bricks. “Danny’s no good, okay? He’s just… He’s just playing around.” There is no way to explain this that isn’t going to make Roger come off as the jealous boyfriend, but that is exactly what it feels like when he watches Daniel flirting with Mark, and he’s better than some one night stand. Better than Roger, even, and if Mark isn’t going to sink to his level than Roger is going to make sure he doesn’t take any one who isn’t good enough for him.

 

Roger can’t take the silence anymore. “Come on.” He pushes himself off the wall, wrapping an arm around Mark’s shoulder to show him it’s safe, to touch him without being obvious how much he wants to touch him. “Let’s get back to the loft.”

 

Mark lets Roger lead him off without a word.

 

*

 

There was a time when Roger didn’t think about Mark like that.

 

Masturbation isn’t always about sex. Any guy can tell you that while usually he’s thinking about ass and tits and cock or whatever the fuck it is that turns him on, there are also those times when it’s not really about the need to get off. Sometimes it’s just out of habit, you get use to jerking off and so you do without even thinking about it. There’s that relaxing, bone-melting feeling after an orgasm that makes sleep that much easier. Then again, sometimes it’s just the best way to pass the time.

 

It started out when Roger was just trying to work himself up for a show or create some heat in his blood for the winter. He wasn’t really thinking about sex, and so his mind tuned in and out with flickers of life and people he knew. It’s only a matter of time before he thought back to some earlier conversation with Mark or how he promised the other boy to take him to practice or was just going through what he had done that day. It’s nothing perverted. Roger has same thoughts about Collins and Benny and that guy who always smells like fish and beer and lives on the ground floor. It’s not about sex, so Roger didn’t worry when these images leak into his mind.

 

Then the flickers turn into the occasional cameo along side April, Jane Wiedlin and Mia Sara. It wasn’t just those lazy last minute sessions that Mark is appeared in. It’s additive, jerking off with your best friend’s name rolling inside your head while he’s grabbing lunch or playing with his camera in the next room. There is something about being caught, about knowing how wrong it is, that makes the experience that much better.

 

Still, there was a time when Roger had some control over his own hand and fantasies.

 

After they got back to the loft Mark says a quick goodnight before hurrying off to bed. Probably trying to figure out when Roger went from acting like an over protective brother to junkie roommate to boyfriend. Roger locks himself in his own room. He sits back on his bed, banging his head against the wall. Why does he have to lose his temper like that? Why the fuck can’t he just not care who Mark is with?

 

After a few minutes of hating himself, a headache starts to set in, so Roger unzips his pants, pulling down his jeans and underwear just enough to give his hand room. It’s not really about sex, but if Roger keeps thinking about Mark and Daniel and the mess he has managed to make, it’s not going to be pretty.

 

Roger never really needed to be creative when he jerked off. The same images will pretty much cover it every time. Usually this means Mark stretched out across the bed, hand wrapped around the base of Roger’s cock as he tongues the head. As the crown disappears between Mark’s lips Roger swipes his thumb across the tip. He’s shaking when he arches up into his hand, not bothering to fight back a low moan. Maybe he should have stayed at the club for just a while longer.

 

Visuals, scenarios, they’ve never been really important to Roger but he can’t stop his mind from wandering. Backstage at the club, Mark moving past Daniel without a second look, taking Roger’s hand and dragging him into some room that’s not even there. Lips and bodies pressed together as Mark drags Roger’s hand down to cup him through his pant, breaking apart from the kiss only to moan. Hooded eyes, darker than they really are, looking up at Roger with hunger and want. “You promised I’d come.”

 

Roger’s own hand slows down to knead his erection like he’s doing to Mark through rough jeans. “You’re here, aren’t you?”

 

Mark backs away, stopping when he runs into some table that hadn’t been there before. It didn’t really matter in Roger’s mind when he lost his clothes, only that Mark is now completely naked. “Come on.” He presses his stomach against the cold table, bracing his hands at the side as he spreads his legs. “I stuck around through your whole sets for this.”

 

Roger pushes his hands under Mark, running them up to tweak hard nipples. Mark jumps against him, making a sound somewhere between a whimper and a yelp. “You’re telling me you just come to the shows for the after-sex?”

 

“Mmm…” Mark buckles against Roger’s cock, trying to push him inside. “Don’t tease.”

 

Roger grabs the bottle of lube sitting on the table. He moves back enough that his slick fingers can press up against Mark. Mark groans, nearly slipping when he pushes his legs further apart, sliding down Roger’s finger. The hand on his waist tightens to keep him pressed against the cold tabletop. “I’m the tease?” Gentle licks along the underside of Mark’s jaw, a nip at the back of his neck. “What about that show you put on earlier, with the camera and those tight jeans?” It’s nice to imagine Mark leaning over his tripod, trying to lure Roger into a quick fuck before the show.

 

Mark is moaning, trying to relax as Roger slips another finger inside him. “Later,” he says, breathless and hoarse and all those wonderful things that describe a person on the verge of losing control. “Right now, just hurry.” The Mark in his mind isn’t giving Roger much of a choice. He’s rocking his hips back and fourth, meeting each one of Roger’s slow thrusts. He could probably come just like this, watching Mark fuck himself against Roger’s three digits.

 

He curls his fingers just so and Mark chokes on a scream, grinding his cock against the smooth table. “Fuck.” Ignoring Roger’s slow, steady speed Mark sets his own rhythm, more desperate as he pushes himself back against Roger’s fingers. “Roger, just-“

 

In his mind, there isn’t a smooth transition. It goes from watching Mark push back on his fingers to being buried to the hilt with that tight heat constricting around his cock. That’s about the time that all words and images and everything fade from Roger’s head. All that’s left the feeling of his hand pumping his dick and pretending it’s even half as good as it would feel to be inside Mark.

 

If he doesn’t slow down this is going to be over embarrassingly fast, even on his own. He needs to think of something else, something to slow him down.

 

The door opens and Roger tears his hand away, panting and unfinished.

 

Mark’s face is a deep red. His eyes go between Roger’s face to his crotch to the ceiling. “I guess I should have knocked or…”

 

“It’s okay,” Roger says. He’s sitting back in bed with his pants undone and his cock leaking against his stomach, this far from orgasm as he fantasizes about his best friend. Maybe if he says it’s okay, it will be. “I ummm…” Mark isn’t leaving, which is a good thing. Or a bad thing. Now is not the best time for Roger to be trying to figure these things out. “I need to apologize for earlier. For, you know, what I said.”

 

Mark sort of nods, so Roger tries to continue talking. Nothing like rambling to break the awkward silence of being caught jerking off. “You weren’t acting like a slut, you know. I shouldn’t have called you that.”

 

Mark meets his eyes for half a second before they go back to the ceiling. “It’s okay,” he murmurs, like he doesn’t quite want Roger to hear him. “I don’t mind.”

 

“Oh.” It’s probably just the fact that Roger was just fucking a very eager Mark up against a table in the back of some nightclub, but it sounds to him like what Mark is saying is that he wouldn’t mind Roger calling him a slut. Just when Roger figures maybe his erection will just disappear he can feel an ache in his balls and fuck, Mark shouldn’t be allowed to say those sorts of thing.

 

Roger bites down his bottom lip to keep himself from moaning while he tries to bend his legs to hide his full and leaking cock. Mark doesn’t seem as nervous about making eye contact anymore. He takes a step into Roger’s room, closing the door behind him. “Can I stay?”

 

Roger couldn’t say no even if he wanted to, and he really doesn’t want to. He nods and Mark is climbing across the bed and onto Roger. He’s still in shock by the time Mark is kissing him, forcing Roger’s lips open with his tongue. He’s got his hands on Roger’s cheeks, titling his head back so that there isn’t an inch between their lips. Hot and wet and with Mark’s hips moving in small, erratic circles against Roger’s lap, it’s a moment for Roger to regain control. Then he’s kissing Mark just as hard and eager as the other boy. He’s hands fall to Mark’s ass, squeezing their bodies closer and grinding their erections together.

 

One of Mark’s hands drops from Roger’s face, but Roger is too busy with Mark’s tongue, Mark’s skin, Mark pressing against him to care. He doesn’t notice what’s going on until a small foil wrapper is being pushed into his hands and Mark is pulling back. Roger’s groan sounds incredible needy even to him as he leans in to capture a few more kisses before Mark is too far down the bed to touch.

 

The boy gives Roger a lopsided smile, lifting his hips off the bed and pushing off his pants. Roger forgets all about being disappointed at the lack of contact. Mark is leaning back on his bed, completely naked with his cock against his stomach and his legs spread open. He’s all pale skin and pink flush and fuck me now.

 

He’s holding a small bottle in one hand, rubbing the lube over his fingertips. Roger’s cock twitches, knowing exactly what’s about to happen and unbelievable hard at just the thought. Mark smiles is somewhere between seductive and self-conscious when he lifts his hips up, fingers circling around his entrance. “You have no idea how much I want this.”

 

Mark moans, arching back as he slips one finger inside himself. He gets himself comfortable before he slips the digit back out. “No idea how much I want you.”

 

Roger can feel the blood pumping through his cock. Watching that finger dip in and out of Mark with slow, teasing thrusts that are driving them both insane. “You’re wrong,” he says so low it sounds like a growl. Something in his voice must set Mark off. He groans, hips arching off the bed as he pushes another finger inside him. Roger needs him to stay like that, giving him a prefect view of Mark’s fingers disappearing up into that tight ring of skin. “I know exactly how much you want this.”

 

Mark has lost any steady rhythm he might have had going at the start. He’s almost flat on his back, propped up with one elbow to give himself enough leverage to pump back against his fingers. He must hit that spot, because his toes curled into his sheets, head going back as he moans and pushes all the way up with three fingers. Roger’s is clutching the headrest hard enough for his fingernails to leave marks in the paint, trying to stop himself from fisting his erection. His hips are arching up, begging for some kind of contact. “If you don’t hurry up,” Roger warns, voice too needy to sound truly demanding, “I’m gonna come right now.”

 

Mark’s chuckle turns to a groan when he pulls his fingers out. “You don’t have to stare,” he says, pushing himself up to his knees. His entire body is shimmering with sweat. A trail of cum leaks the way down the side of his cock.

 

“Can’t help it,” Roger mutters, taking in every inch of Mark. Roger wants to run his hands along those smooth inner thighs, bite at the unmarked skin, tease hard nipple, feel that cock at the back of his throat. Roger wants every inch of Mark to be his to take, and now Mark is offering him his chance.

 

Mark’s arms slip around Roger’s shoulders, straddling Roger’s hips so that nearly every inch of them is pressed together. This time it’s Roger who takes control of the kiss, greedy in his exploration of Mark’s mouth. Mark moans and tilts his head so that they’re teeth clash together and Roger’s tongue is wrapped around Mark’s. Fingers brush over his cock, pulling the condom down as they trail along the sides. Roger’s head hits the wall, thrusting up into Mark’s light touches. He feels like he should do something to keep himself from screaming, but honestly the only sounds he can make are desperate whimpers caught in the back of his throat.

 

Mark leans over, licking around Roger’s partly opened lips. He mutters something that might be, “I love you,” before lifting his hips and slamming himself down on Roger’s cock.

 

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Mark’s fingers are digging into his skin, his face buried in Roger’s shoulder and he can feel the hot sting of tears against his skin. And fuck, he should say something, ask if Mark is okay or pull out but it feels so good being surrounded by Mark’s heat like that and it’s all Roger can do to not thrust himself deeper inside.

 

Roger runs his hands down Mark’s side, showing he’s willing to be patient. Mark moans something against Roger’s shoulder he can’t understand. He wiggles around a bit, and Roger’s fingers curled into the sheets to keep himself in check. The wet tears are licked and kissed away. “Move.”

 

Roger thinks he should make some sort of protest and make sure Mark is honestly alright, but the other boy’s voice is commanding and hoarse and it feels so good to be up to the hilt in Mark after all these years. He replaces the sheets between his hands with Mark’s hips, keeping him in place as Roger slips out. “How’s that?”

 

Mark answers by moaning and pushing himself back down.

 

There isn’t time for a nice, easy rhythm with Roger so close to the edge. Mark wiggles his hips until Roger is hitting that spot in him every time and soon it’s pounding and thrusting and heat. Mark is in total control as he rocks up and down whimpering and panting and moaning Roger’s name. Roger fights to keep his eyes open, watching Mark with his head tossed back and lips trembling and so wet and hot and tight as he brings himself down on Roger’s cock.

 

It doesn’t take long for Roger to come. He bites down on his lip to keep from screaming. The last thing he needs Mark to hear after that display outside the club is Roger screaming his name. He wipes the mess on his hands down his jean, his eyes reluctantly fluttering open and leaving behind the image of Mark looking so fucking hot and willing.

 

He needs to get a girlfriend or a life or the courage to ask Mark out. Anything is better than locking himself in his bedroom, pretending Mark actually wants what Roger needs.

 

*

 

“He’s going to kill me.”

 

“Mmm…” Lips pressed together, teeth kneading plump, wet flesh. Eyes closed and lights off so that nothing matters.

 

“I’m serious. Roger gets crazy when he’s jealous.”

 

“He’s not jealous,” Mark says. Licking along side a jaw line, tongue pressed into an ear to earn him a moan and Daniel’s erection pressed against his hips. “He just gets protective sometimes.”

 

Mark has been hard since Roger shoved him against the wall of the club. He was in the loft for less than five minutes before calling the number Daniel had left him. It had been two years since Maureen. Didn’t he deserve a little fun?

 

There’s a pervert part of his mind that he’s trying to repress. The part that wants Roger to catch him and Daniel like this, and maybe he can bring out that possessive part in his best friend again. Maybe this time when Roger traps Mark against a wall Mark will be brave enough to actually try something.

 

For all Daniel’s talk about getting caught he doesn’t seem eager to leave. He has his thigh slipped between Mark’s legs, kissing he way across Mark’s collarbone. Mark doesn’t hold back a moan, pushing himself against Daniel’s jean clad leg, trying to ease the pressure in his own jeans. “Don’t you have a bed?” Daniel asks. Mark kisses Dan hard enough to shut him up, to keep his voice from clashing with the images in Mark’s head. He can turn the smooth walls of the apartment into rough bricks digging into his back. Black, matted hair can be blonde and spiked in the dark. Blue eyes can be made into green with just a little imagination.

 

In the main room of the loft someone turns on the faucet. Mark tears open Daniel’s jeans, running his thumb across the tip of the other boy’s cock. He pulls back so that he can’t swallow Dan’s groan. Outside his door the shuffling comes to a standstill, and maybe he’s not trying too hard to stifle that part of him that wants to get caught.

 

“Roger,” Daniel moans as Mark tightens his grip around the drummer’s cock. “Gonna hear,” Mark bites down on his neck, cupping Daniel’s balls his free hand, trying to get the other boy to speak up. The water has been turned off and it sounds like someone is walking across the loft to stand by Mark’s door. “Us.”

 

Yeah well, Mark thinks, dragging Daniel in for one really good kiss before Roger can burst through the door, that’s the point.


	3. Chapter 3

"Roger, what the hell are you-"

 

There are about three seconds that stretch into eternity while Roger is staring into Mark's eyes. Mark's room is completely dark; the only light is coming from behind Roger, making him into a silhouette. Still, Mark swears he can actually see Roger's eyes flash.

 

Then the door is slammed shut.

 

"Shit," Daniel mutters, breaking the awkward silence after the echoes have faded away. "I told you he'd be angry."

 

Shit. Shit is right. Shit and fuck and all those other words Mark's mother would slap him for using. "Shit." Mark's head is spinning as he shoves Daniel off of him and goes to find Roger. He nearly falls over when Roger's door slams shut and it feels like the whole loft shakes. This isn't how it is suppose to go. Mark had just been drunk and horny and not thinking straight.

 

"Roger!" Mark knocks at Roger's door, trying to sound as calm as possible while his voice is trembling. He doesn't know what he is going to say when Roger answers, doesn't even know what exactly he's done wrong, but he knows he has to get Roger to talk with him. "Roger, open up!"

 

"I should go," Daniel says, zipping up his jeans and hurrying to the front door, apparently desperate to get out before Roger decides to be a little less closed off and a lot more violent. Mark ignores him. He has his ear pressed to the cold metal door, listening for some sign of life. He remembers the one of the last times he had been this desperate for Roger to answer him, so afraid he was locked in there with a needle held to his arm.

 

"Roger, can you hear me?" It's a stupid thing to yell, but Mark isn't thinking clearly. He's just saying anything that might get Roger to talk back. "Roger?"

 

There's still nothing. Daniel is gone, and Mark is left all alone trying to coax Roger out of his room. "Roger, listen, I know.... I just, fuck, open the door!" What's he going to say? That he was just screwing around with Dan to make Roger jealous? That after a year of jerking off to fantasies about Roger he felt like he was going to explode? That he was drunk and Daniel is cute and Roger left him so hard he didn't think he had any other choice? Which one of those excuses sounded the best? Which one is Roger the least likely to beat the shit out of Mark for?

 

"Come on, Roger," Mark yells, hoping Roger will give in and at least scream back. "Don't you think you're over reacting?" Instead of Roger yelling, he gets the sound of something hitting the ground. Mark winces, hoping it isn't Roger's amp. He always regrets that sort of thing later.

 

Mark groans, turning around to lean against the door. "Roger?" No answer. "Roger?" Nothing. Mark slides down, plopping onto the floor. He pulls his legs to his chest, waiting for his head to stop spinning and a clear idea of what to do to magically appear in his jumbled mind.

 

"Roger, I'm sorry," he says, but it's pretty clear Roger isn't listening.

 

*

 

Mark is woken up when his head comes crashing to the floor.

 

"Fuck hell urg what shit?" Mark's head hurts, and not just from the falling. The light streaming in from the skylight is killing his eyes, and he's pretty sure that he'd be throwing up if he had any food in his stomach. He groans, moving only as much as he has to so that he can move his hand under his head, massaging the bump that is starting to form on his scalp.

 

When he finally manages to open his eyes without feeling like they're ready to bleed he spots a blurry figure that looks suspiciously like Roger. As the image becomes clearer Mark determines that it is definitely Roger standing over him, struggling to keep a blank face even if Mark can see he's fighting back that worry and amusement. "You hit your head."

 

"Thanks," Mark says, grunting in pain while he tries to get to his feet. He manages to get himself propped onto his elbow before giving up. "You're out of your room."

 

"Yeah, well." Roger leaves Mark to crawl up the wall and try to keep himself from falling back down again all on his own. Well, that was clearly the wrong thing to say. What is wrong with him? Can't he do anything right when it comes to Roger?

 

While Roger fixes coffee, Mark hobbles across the room to collapse on the couch. He shouldn't have had that much to drink. He shouldn't have called Daniel over here. He shouldn't have fallen in love with Roger. He shouldn't have ever left Scarsdale in the first place.

 

For some reason, maybe it's just the blinding pain throbbing in his head or the fact that his best friend hates him at the moment, but Mark can't help but laugh. Definitely a mistaken when his head feels like it's trying to explode, but the pain doesn't make the situation any less hilarious.

 

Roger walks over his coffee in hand, sitting down on the coffee table and watches Mark laugh and sob. "What's so funny?"

 

"Can you believe," Mark shakes his head, not entirely sure if he should be smiling or crying. "I actually thought about going back to Scarsdale."

 

As funny as Mark find this, Roger is not amused. He takes a sip from his mug and continues staring at Mark, which manages to destroy any humor left in the situation. Mark has never liked people staring at him. Maureen never really did. She was always looking around, always out and about and wild. It's what made Mark love her. Roger, he's completely different. He has this way of just looking at Mark that makes him want to shrink away. Makes him want to get his camera so that it can be him watching Roger and not the other way around.

 

Roger waits until Mark isn't smiling anymore to ask, "Why do you want to go back?" He has this calm, professional tone that reminds Mark of this psychiatrist his mom once made him go to. Mark had never noticed Dr. Rindwood looking so nervous over what he was going to answer. It's nice to know that even if Roger is mad at him, he doesn't want Mark skipping town.

 

Mark shrugs, groaning when he tries to sit up and eventually just giving up on the idea. "Not really. Just sometimes things just get so fucked up." There are so many ways in which Mark has managed to screw up his life. Maybe it would have been easier if he'd stayed home. Maybe if he'd done what his father wanted, gone to Brown and become an accountant, maybe Mark wouldn't be secretly lusting after his best friend. Maybe it would have been easier that way, but it's not what Mark wants. Mark wants Roger, and there is nothing that can change that.

 

Before either of them can say anything else, the phone rings. "Speak!"

 

"Mark? Mark? It's Cindy."

 

Mark groans, hitting his head against the armrest of the couch. "Fuck," he mutters, rubbing the now bruising bump on the back of his head. "Turn it off."

 

Roger stares at the answering machine, taking another sip of coffee. He must really hate Mark not to offer him any. "Why don't you ever pick up? Are you just never home? What about that roommate of yours? I know he doesn't have a job. Are you ignoring me?"

 

"Yes," Mark says, covering his eyes with his hand to block out some of the light. "Please go away." It's not that Mark doesn't love his older sister. She had helped hold back Mom when Mark announced he was heading to New York to become a filmmaker. Sure, her husband is sort of creepy and her kids are demon spawn, but Cindy isn't all that bad. Recently, though, her husband got a job in the city and moved the family to the New York suburbs. Cindy apparently saw this as a sign to call Mark with news of the cutest girl she'd just met up at the synagogue. Mark always knew when it is Saturday because that's when Cindy called.

 

"You remember that girl I was telling you about? Bessie. Well, I sat next to her today and we started talking."

 

Roger taps Mark in the shoulder, so Mark moves his arm back enough that he can see Roger out of the corner of one barely opened eye. Roger mouths the word, "Bessie?" Sure, now he thinks something is funny.

 

Mark groans and covers his face again, trying to ignore Roger's snickering. On the answering machine, Cindy keeps talking, unaware that the last of Mark's dignity is being destroyed. "Turns out she's an ART student at NYU," Cindy emphasizes the word art as if Mark would jump the phone now that he's found out this Bessie girl isn't just Jewish, but also into art. She's always tried to understand her brother's obsession with camera, maybe a little too much. "She's back with her parents for the summer. Turns out she's a little younger than I thought, but there's a four year difference between me and Max and we get along great, don't we snookims?"

 

Whatever else Cindy says before the beep cuts her off is hard to hear above Roger's laughter. Behind his arm, Mark rolls his eyes. "Bessie?" Roger pokes Mark in the side, knowing that Mark hates that and it makes him yelp, or as Collins puts it "squeal like a naked girl when he parents walk in the room". Mark jumps away, taking a light hit at Roger. He misses by a long shot. "Snookims? Is your entire family screwed up?"

 

"Now you know why I was laughing at my momentary lapse in sanity," Mark grumbles, rubbing his side. He pulls himself up so that he can stretch his back out over the armrest, trying to work out some of the ache in what felt like every last one of his muscles. Sleeping curled up against a door isn't nearly as comfortable as it sounds and, admittedly, it doesn't sound comfy at all.

 

After rolling around his shoulders enough that his back feels like goo, Mark collapses back on the couch. He looks over at Roger to say something about his hangover, but that gets forgotten when he notices that Roger is staring. He shifts uncomfortable, brushing his hands over his chin to see if maybe he'd drooled in his sleep and then wondering if it's his hair instead. Maureen always said he had scary morning hair. "What?" Roger quickly looks towards the skylight.

 

"Nothing," he mutters, picking up his coffee and walking towards the kitchen. This only makes Mark more suspicious. If he looked funny, Roger would have told him instead of acting all nervous.

 

"Look, is this about last night?" Mark asks. They're going to have to fight about it some time. Might as well get it over with before these awkward silences and half-hearted conversations become habit. Mark walks over to the kitchen, leaning on one of the counters when he figures out that walking is not the best idea. "You know I-"

 

"Whatever," Roger says, shrugging his shoulders to show that it's no big deal. Mark might believe that if it weren't for the fact that Roger refuses to look at him. "I don't wanna talk about it, okay?" This resolve to silence lasts about ten seconds before Roger slams the mug onto the counter. Mark jumps back, barely escaping the splash of hot coffee. "How could you do that?" It's somewhere between screaming and growling. Mark winces, wondering if maybe he could get a cup of coffee before Roger starts yelling at him. "I mean, I don't care who you fuck but-"

 

"Obviously you do." Definitely wrong thing to say. Mark knows he's screwed up even before Roger turns his back to him. The sullen attitude and avoiding eye contact-Mark knows these signs and they are never good. "What's the big deal, Roger? Me and Danny were just screwing around."

 

Roger snorts, storming out of the kitchen. Mark watches him, but doesn't follow. He's seen Roger like this before. He knows Roger is just trying to get some distance between them. "That's all, huh? Just screwing around. God, Mark, don't you think you're better than that?"

 

Maybe it's just the Maureen in him, but Mark can't imagine anyone being better than casual sex. Especially not a guy who gets off to images of his best friend cuffing him to the bedpost. "Do you know how long it's been since I've had sex, Roger?" This gets Roger to stop pacing for a while and actually look at Mark. "Since Maureen!" During Maureen, actually. At the very end of their relationship Mark had been too wrapped up in Roger, and at the same time Maureen was figuring out that Mark - and boys in general - were just not her taste. "And that's was... What... two years ago?"

 

Roger looks too shocked to speak. Mark can't blame him. Looking back, he's amazed he's hasn't done something more drastic. Running a hand through his hair, he tries to massage away some of the throbbing pain in his temple. "Look, I'm going to my room," Mark says trying to sound as patient as possible while Roger continues to just stare at him. He was wrong. They should wait until after the explosive pain that is filling his head is gone to have this argument. "Whatever the hell we're fighting about, can we do it later?"

 

Mark doesn't wait for Roger to answer - he's pretty sure Roger doesn't even try - just turns around and heads back into his bedroom. All the lights are still off from last night, so all Mark has to do is climb into bed. He groans, resting his back against the cold back wall. That went well. In the same way that Mark's love life is going well.

 

It's only a few minutes before the door to Mark's room is barely cracked open, Roger sliding inside as if he's not sure he's allowed to be there. "Can I come in?" Roger sounds surprising meek. Mark knows that voice. It's Roger's apology voice, for when he can't quite say it. It doesn't matter. Mark always forgives him.

 

Mark sighs, at least trying to act put out. It turns out sounding a lot more like surrender. "Sure." Roger takes careful footsteps into Mark's room, shutting the door nearly soundlessly behind him. He hops onto Mark's bed, scooting over until they're barely touching. It feels nice to be so close to Roger. Nice enough that Mark wants to snuggle against the warm body next to his.

 

Those types of thoughts are not helping him get over Roger. Mark tries to think about girls. Naked girls. Really pretty naked girls. But not Maureen. Shit, now all he can think about is Maureen. She was suppose to call yesterday and he forgot to tell her that he wouldn't be here because of Roger's gig. She is going to be so pissed next time they talk. If she had any idea what he went through... Well that probably wouldn't matter to Maureen. Still, it gives him a reason not to call her for a while. He has to deal with Roger first, although Roger doesn't seem too angry with him anymore. It's nice, having Roger next to him like this.

 

After a few minutes of silence where Mark looses out to his own mind, Roger starts to fidget. If staring makes Mark nervous, than silence does it for Roger. "You have a headache?"

 

Mark shrugs, which actually makes his headache that much worse. This, he imagines, is what it feels like to be dying. Of course, he always thinks that after he wakes up from a night of drinking and he always survives to make the same mistakes again. "Kinda."

 

"Here." Mark feels more than sees Roger's hesitant movements before fingers twist into his hair. Mark almost jumps at the contact, barely keeping in check as Roger starts massaging his scalp. The touch is timid, to light to make any of the pounding in Mark's skull go away, but it's the thought that counts. At least Roger is trying to apologize for their fight, or possibly just avoid talking about it.

 

Hell, what is he thinking? He is in pain right now and Roger owes him. "I lied," he says, tilting his head so that Roger's fingers are right over the pain. "It hurts like hell. What the fuck was I thinking?" With Roger trying so hard to say he's sorry, it's only fair for Mark to apologize as well.

 

Roger smiles and applies a little more pressure. Mark pushes away from the wall, wiggling around until he gets Roger's hands right above his ears, and maybe he's pressed a little too close to Roger but the other boy doesn't move away so it must be safe. "April used to do this after I got back from a show," Roger says, and Mark swears he can feel Roger's words rumble through him. He doesn't try to answer. He's pretty sure if he opens his mouth right now he's going to moan.

 

The sane, reasonable part of Mark that took a vacation last night says that maybe this isn't the best idea, leading Roger on like this. His friend is just trying to apologize for a fight, probably didn't expect little Mark to hard and panting. He's using an unknowing Roger, and shouldn't he at least feel guilty about this if he doesn't outright stop it?

 

Fuck you, Mark tells sanity and goes back to concentrating on how good Roger's hands feel as they knead circles into his temple.

 

After a while Roger's touches become lighter again, somewhere between massaging and petting as they work through Mark's hair. It relaxing and exciting, light brushes and just enough pressure not to be teasing. Roger starts downwards, rubbing small circles in Mark's neck with one hand while the other brushes hair behind his ear. Somehow Mark ends up resting against the other boy, head in the crook of Roger's neck as his hands fall to Mark's shoulders. Mark's jeans are starting to get a little to snug and there is a burning feeling in the pit of his stomach that isn't left over from drinking. These warning signs are ignored for the feeling of Roger's fingers against his skin.

 

With his ear pressed against Roger's neck he can hear the other boy's heartbeat race against his own. He closes his eyes so that everything is Roger against him and touching him and breathing against his cheek, and it's like being stuck between reality and one of his fantasies. The musician's fingers slid under his shirt, callused pads pressing against his bare skin. Mark's too out of it to try and hold back a low, throaty moan.

 

When Roger doesn't stop, Mark's moan turns into a whimper, arching off the bed and back into Roger as his cock rocks against the rough fabric of his pants looking for some sort of contact. "Shit." Roger's hands stop, and for a few seconds the room is completely still and silence expect for his panting and Roger's nervous swallows. "We should-"

 

"Stop," Mark mutters. Because sleeping with your best friend never turns out well. If Roger leaves right now Mark's not sure he'll be able to keep from collapsing. It seems like all that's keeping him from melting is Roger's hands on his skin.

 

"Yeah." Roger swallows, hands shaking as he pulls them away, and Mark doesn't collapse but it feels like he should. "Yeah, I should... Umm..."

 

Mark struggles to scoot down the bed and way from Roger. "Yeah," Mark says, wincing when he curls up his legs in hopes that maybe Roger hasn't noticed the very obvious bulge in his jeans just yet. "You should probably go back to...."

 

"My room." Roger backs away from the bed, his eyes going between Mark and the door. He keeps running his hand through his hair, small movements that catch Mark's attention as he tries to look anywhere but Roger. "Yeah, I guess I'll..."

 

"Later," Mark says, struggling to sound casual. Because this isn't one hundred different types of awkward.

 

"Yeah," Roger says, slipping out of the door almost as quietly as he'd come in. "Later."

 

*

 

Strong hands with callused fingers pressed against the base of his cock, squeezing his balls just a little too tight and Mark isn't sure wither he's suppose to come or scream or both.

 

On his hands and knees with Roger's cock digging against his ass but not in him, just teasing. Finger brush the underside of his balls, the hand around the base of his erection tightening when Mark whimpers and rocks his hips back. Torturing Mark with pressure and promises that lead nowhere. Roger leans in, breath against Mark's neck and even turned away with his eyes closed Mark can see his smirk. "Ma-ark," Sing-song and sweet-Roger wants him to know he's just toying with him. Mark whines, pressing back and spreading his legs out, begging Roger to just fuck him already.

 

A hand slides up his stomach, twisting a hard nipple a little too sharply. Mark's yelp turns into a groan when the pinching become light touches. Between rough and gentle strokes. The feeling of hands massaging and twisting through his hair become ghost touches against his skin. Long fingers wrap around his cock, stopping him from coming as a thumb brushes over the head, dragging a line of wetness up his stomach, whispering horrible things in his ear.

 

Roger with his skin glistening as he starts getting fed up with the teasing. Hands all over Mark's body, licking the bite marks he's left on his shoulder. Sexy, confidant Roger with his rough hands and gorgeous eyes and hard cock rocking against Mark. Trying to act like he's in total control even while he's loosing it, is dying to just give in and push Mark to the bed and fuck him hard and fast and just like Mark wants it.

 

His Roger, who tries to act so cut off from life even when Mark knows he's so passionate and emotional it scares him.

 

Right now all that passion is concentrated on Mark. He's trembling on the edge of release. His thrusting speeds up, unable to hold back any longer. In his mind, Roger has him on his back. His hands are tangled in bleached-out hair, eyes barely open as he watches his friend's head between his legs. Beautiful, bruised lips stretched over his cock as he takes Mark in. Licking down one side, the back of his throat constricting around the head. Mark's hands twist in the sheets and Roger's hair, pumping his cock as Roger hollows his cheeks and hums around the sensitive flesh.

 

Mark comes so hard he ends up sobbing when he tries to hold back his scream. He collapses against the wall, sweating and panting and still shaking as the after shock of his orgasm passes through him.

 

All Roger has to do is rub his shoulders, and it's the best "sex" Mark has had in a long time. He needs to meet someone really badly.

 

In the other room, the answering machine picks up the phone after one ring. Mark lies back in bed, eyelids feeling to heavy to keep open. He snuggles against his blankets, feeling like a good nap is in order.

 

"Mark? It's Maureen." Shit. Mark groans, rolling onto his back and blinking at the ceiling, trying to find the strength in him to get out of bed. It's not there. Maybe she's just calling to remind them to buy groceries or that Joanne's birthday is in a week. Maybe she doesn't even want to talk to him.

 

"Are you there? Mark, I really need to talk to you." Mark pauses midway getting out of bed. It sounds like Maureen is crying. Maybe not full out hysterics, but she's definitely upset. While Maureen might over react to a whole lot, Mark knows her well enough to know that she doesn't cry. Bitch, whine, moan, complain, and place blame were more her thing. "Look, if you're not there I just-"

 

Maureen is definitely crying. Mark is across the loft in a second, picking up the phone before she can hang up. "Maureen?" He runs a hand through his hair, an old nervous gesture. "Maureen? Are you there?"

 

On the other end of the line, Maureen sobs. "Pookie?"

 

Mark sighs, realizing he managed to catch her and a little wary of the nickname. Pookie never boded well. "Yes, Maureen. I'm here. Sorry I was just..." Mark slips the phone between his ear and shoulder, zipping up his jeans. "Umm... In the shower."

 

He doesn't sound at all convincing, but Maureen is too busy sniveling to notice. Mark can't help but be a little relieved. "Thank God you're there," Maureen cries, and Mark can almost picture the overdramatic pout she's working. "I... I need to talk with to you."

 

"Sure, of course!" Mark answers. He never has any choice but to help Maureen. Like Roger, she's managed to get under his skin and stay there. Not that Mark minds. After all, once upon a time she was his Maureen. "Where are you? Are you okay?"

 

"I'm at SBNY, on West 17th and 5th avenue " Maureen sobs. "Can you come over here, Pookie? Joanne is probably looking for me and I..." Here Maureen breaks down into unintelligible tears, and Mark is practically out the door.

 

"I'll be there in a second," Mark promises, running of to his room to change before he remembers the phone is attached to the wall. Sighing, Mark hurries back to the cradle. Maureen is still sobbing and Mark can't quite make out her words, but they sound important. "I promise, Maureen, just give me a-"

 

Knock. Knock. Knock.

 

"Someone is at the door," Mark says. When the hell had he and Roger become so popular?

 

"It's Joanne!" Maureen squeals. "Oh my God, Mark, you can't tell her where I am. Promise, baby?"

 

Mark rubs his forehead, wondering if this damn headache is ever going to go away. He can tell this thing with Maureen is going to be a headache in itself and someone is still pounding at the door loud enough to wake the dead and Roger is still locked away in his room. What Mark wouldn't give to still be in his arms, hands tangled in his hair and fingers pressing into his skin.

 

Think about girls. Beautiful, naked girls. On second thought, not helping. Think about Mom. Think about dead puppies. Think about that guy on the third floor who never bathes and smells like fish and beer. "Look, Maureen, I'm going to hang up so I can go, okay?"

 

"I realize that," Maureen says, and even though Mark can't see her he knows exactly how she looks when she rolls her eyes. "Listen, just... Hurry, okay?"

 

"I promise," Mark says. "Be there in a bit."

 

"Maureen? Mark? Roger? Anyone there?"

 

Desperately trying to straight out his day old clothes as if that will get rid of the smell, Mark hurries over to door before Joanne can make his headache any worse. He puts on what he hopes is a decent smile before opening the door.

 

"Hey, Joanne."

 

Joanne looks over Mark's shoulder, as if Maureen would be hiding right there on the couch. "Is she here?"

 

"Who?" Joanne glares, walking around Mark and into the loft. Mark sighs, gently closing the door behind her. So maybe acting totally oblivious isn't going to save him time. "No, she's not here," He says, leaning against the kitchen counter as Joanne peaks into his room.

 

"Do you know where she is?" Mark freezes up a little when Joanne moves towards the answering machine, staring at the little red beep that is Maureen's message. "She ran out and, well, she always comes here or calls you." She gives Mark a look somewhere between suspicious and annoyed. "I guess she trusts you enough to talk about her problems. More than she does for me."

 

Mark shakes his head. "It's not like that. Maureen, she just likes getting under your skin. Likes making you angry. Proves that you still like her." Mark had seen it a thousand times when he was with Maureen. Every time she went out and slept with someone, she'd be sure to let Mark find out. Just Maureen's way of testing him, to make sure he still wanted to stick around. He always did.

 

"I wish she'd let me show her how much I love her without these games." Mark is pretty sure he must visibly relax when Joanne walks away from the machine and towards the door. "I guess I should go look at the Clit Club."

 

For a second, Mark wants to break down and tell her. Joanne looks so worried, and Mark knows how it is, loving Maureen. He could save Joanne a lot of stress, hell he could save himself a bundle, if he just tells her where Maureen is and let them work out whatever problem they're having now by themselves.

 

Mark gives a halfhearted wave as Joanne fixes her coat. "Good luck with that."

 

*

 

The second Mark finds the SBNY club he knows something is off. It's not exactly a hard thing to figure out. In fact, there are plenty of signs. Big, glowing pink neon signs. With rainbow flags hanging off the sides.

 

"Jesus Christ." It's not hard to find Maureen through the crowd of men. She's the only girl at that bar, leaning over and giggling at something with her hand on some guy's thigh. Leave it to Maureen to find someone to flirt with.

 

Playing the part of the older brother, Mark places a hand on Maureen's shoulder, glaring at the man she's sitting with. She's drunk and upset, can't they see that? Where are the morals of some people? "Pookie!" Maureen laughs, throwing herself into Mark's arms. Over her shoulder, Mark tries to keep up his protective stance. It's hard to do when the guy is smirking at him like that.

 

Mark turns them around so that he's facing away from the stranger. "Maureen, what are you doing here?" He asks when he manages to pry the girl off him. Maureen laughs, reaching for her drink.

 

"I'm hiding," she explains as if that should be obvious.

 

"Here?" Mark asks, waving around at the club filled with men, most shirtless and on the dance floor, grinding and sweaty and...

 

Mark's thinking about road kill. He's thinking about last Hanukah he spent with his family. He's thinking about his grandmother with food dribbling down her chin at the dinner table.

 

Maureen shrugged, sliding into one of the stools at the bar. "I figured Joanne wouldn't look here." Mark can see the logic in that. This is the last place he'd expect to find Maureen. Hell, this is the last place he'd expect to find any of his friends, even Collins. After all, Collins probably has more taste than to go to some smoke-filled bar with dancers who could bend like that.

 

"Mark!" Mark jumps back when Maureen waves a hand in his front of his face.

 

"What?" Mark yelps, stumbling forward after he manages to bump into some unsuspected guy grabbing a beer. He turns around, offering a pathetic smile. "Sorry about that I just-"

 

The guy rolls his eyes, taking his drink. "Whatever," he says, linking his arm with another man's and walking off. Great, he probably thought that had been Mark's lame attempt at flirting.

 

"Gee, Mark, you think you'd never seen guys dancing before," Maureen comments, rolling her eyes and taking a sip of her beer.

 

Mark bites on his lip, sitting down with his lap facing away from Maureen. Had he seen guys dancing before? Sure, he knew gay people and Collins had lived with them for a few years and The Well Hungarians had plenty of male fans who would have loved to jump into Roger's bed, but Mark had never really been surrounded by it. Mark is starting to figure a few things out just being here. First is that his attraction to guys is definitely not limited to Roger and Daniel. Second is that he is still horny as all hell.

 

"Stop staring," Maureen snaps her fingers in Mark's face. She gets bossy when she's drunk. Actually, Maureen almost always bossy. That's another thing Mark had fallen in love with.

 

He pushes her hand away, narrowing his eyes to show he's serious and not going to take her attitude. Like he has a choice. "I wasn't staring," he says. Well, not this time anyway. This time he'd been more focused on making sure Maureen notices exactly what effect the earlier staring is having on him. The last thing he needs is for his ex-girlfriend to find out he likes guys. She'll be all over that, probably take credit for it. "Why are we here, Maureen?"

 

Maureen rolls her eyes over the top of her beer. "I told you, hiding." She answers, fluffing out her blonde hair. She recently had it bleached a brilliant blonde. Mark liked her stringy, brown hair a lot more but would never tell her that. As tough as she tries to act, everyone knows Maureen needs other people's attention and approval.

 

Write that down as another thing that drives Mark and Joanne nuts that they couldn't live without.

 

"Hiding from Joanne?" Mark asks. Still drinking, Maureen nods. Mark puts his hand gentle over hers, slowly lowering the mug. "Maybe you need to stop and explain." It's his patient voice, the trying-to-understand-if-you'll-just-let-me tone that Roger and Maureen have helped him perfect.

 

It takes all of three seconds for Maureen's eyes to tear up. "She's leaving me, Mark." She holds up a hand, pressing it against Mark's half open mouth. "Don't' say I'm over reacting, either! I'm serious this time."

 

Mark sighs, pushing Maureen hand away from his lips. "What do you mean she's leaving you?"

 

Maureen sniffles, choking on something that sounds a lot like actual tears instead of her usual drama. "She... She was all night talking with this girl. Claudia." Maureen rolls her eyes when she says the name, and there isn't a person in the world who couldn't hear the spite in her voice. "What kind of name is that, anyway? Claudia? I mean, who looks at their precious baby girl and says, 'You know what name fits? Claudia?' I mean, it's not even a hot name!"

 

Mark's headache is never going to go away. Rubbing his temple, he tries to take a few deep breaths before interrupting Maureen. Another advantage to the bar is that Mark can't just yell at her and walk away. Not unless he wants Maureen climbing onto the bar and making a spectacle of herself. Let it never be said that the girl couldn't work things to her advantage. "So she was talking with some girl? I mean, you talk with girls all the time." And boys, and anything with two legs that shows even a mild interest in her. That's one of those qualities Mark never quite learned to love.

 

"But this is different!" Maureen says, hands waving wildly enough that Mark has to scoot back a little to avoid being hit. "I mean, this wasn't just friendly, idle chat. They were talking, Mark. Really talking. I mean," she leans in, as if about to divulge a huge secret and Mark can't help it. He lets himself get sucked in. "I heard Joanne say the word 'making love'!" Maureen honestly looks indignant when she pulls back. "I mean, friends don't just idly talk about that sort of stuff. How many times have you and Roger talked like that?"

 

For a second, Mark tries to think of all the times him and Roger have discussed sex before coming to his senses. "I'm sure Joanne has a good reason," Mark says, trying to sound as reassuring as possible. Passing strangers kept looking over at the pair and Mark is pretty sure they weren't checking either one of them out. It's not hard to see Maureen is approaching hysterical. "Have you tried talking to her yet?"

 

Before she answers Mark can tell she hasn't. "Of course I have!" Maureen pouts (and Joanne is right about that pout), crossing her arms over her chest so that she looks like a ten year old who didn't get her way. "She denied it, of course! I mean, what did you think she was going to do? Admit that she was cheating on me?"

 

"Maybe she isn't cheating on you," Mark says. He'd seen Joanne earlier and he knows she isn't cheating on Maureen. He knows this because he has been in her shoes (minus the chunky heels) and he's seen that expression in the mirror way to many times to count. "Maybe you're just blowing this out of proportion. I mean, why would Joanne even cheat on you?"

 

This time there is no drama, no make up and acting classes and imaginary violins in the background. Mark has only seen this look once before, this crushed and heartbroken and real Maureen that cried over Angel's grave even while trying to fake a smile. "Because," she whispers, just loud enough that Mark can here over the pop music and yelling and laughing all around them. "Because she's so wonderful. She's smart and she's feisty and she's in control and I'm none of those things." Maureen sniffles, giving a sort of shrug. "Well, I mean, other than feisty. But Joanne she's just amazing and she could have anyone she wants and this Claudia girl... She's a lawyer." Maureen slams her hand down on the bar, tears clinging to her lashes. "And what am I, Mark? Just some out of work actress? I mean, it's not even a contest."

 

Sitting in the middle of a crowded nightclub with Maureen in tears, this has to be the most awkward night of Mark's life. He places a hand on Maureen's shoulder, as comforting as he can be while some guys start stripping and making out behind them. The part of him that still loves Maureen, that knows she would never break down this far from him, that part just has to grit it's teeth and swallow it's pride. "You could kick her ass."

 

Maureen laughs, or possibly sobs. It's difficult to tell with this lighting and music. She does manage to smile for Mark. "Really?"

 

Mark nods. "Trust me. I've seen you angry. Claudia can't hold a candle."

 

Maureen's smile is starting to beat out her tears now. She brushes away some of the wet streaks down her cheeks, careful not to smear her mascara. "I just... I feel like I'm in that movie, right? The one with the girl and the dog. And Joanne is the beautiful, glowing fairy thing that everyone loves and I'm just some evil, green witch." Maureen sniffles, but most of the signs of her break down are gone. "I mean, I know I'm not the best girlfriend in the world but I really love her. I just..."

 

"I don't think you're a witch," Mark says, patting Maureen on the shoulder. "And, just for the record, I don't think Joanne would be caught in a pink fluffy skirt."

 

This gets Maureen laughing. "Actually," and her voice is bright and cheerful again. "She does have this really nice, fluffy pink teddy I bought her last Christmas. Oh my God, Mark, if you could just see her in this thing."

 

Mark moans, resisting the urge to bang his head against the bar. "Why me?" He asks, staring up at the ceiling. The blue and yellow lights flashing above him didn't have an answer, though, and Maureen is to caught up telling Mark about the things her girlfriend can do with feathers to listen.

 

*

 

It's one in the morning by the time Mark manages to escape Maureen. Her confidence is rebuilt enough that she says she'll be able to face Joanne. Mark has the feeling he might have put her up to the idea of actually beating up this Claudia girl, but at that point he had been so desperate to get her to stop talking about editable underwear and body chocolate that he would have said anything to change the subject.

 

A very tired, mildly confused, and verging on sick Mark drags himself to the loft with the intention of passing out in bed. There is a possibility he might look in the fridge to see if they have anything that hasn't started supporting other life forms, but that is a big maybe. Mostly he just wants to fall into bed and pretending that the last two days didn't happen.

 

Especially the parts that involved Joanne and pink feathers.

 

It takes about three seconds after opening the loft door to realizes that he must be crazy to think it would be that easy.

 

"Where the hell have you been?"

 

Mark cringes, closing the door as softly as he can behind him. He's really sick of loud noises. Loud noises, pop music, and people. "Hey, Rog," Mark mutters, hoping his tone can convey exactly how exhausted he is. In case Roger misses the point, he stumbles over his own feet, barely keeping himself from falling.

 

Roger isn't appeased. He's leaning against the kitchen counter, glaring as Mark tries to walk to his room. "Are you drunk?" It's not a light, amused tone. More like Roger is about to beat the shit out of someone. "Where you with Daniel?" And it sounds like that would be the someone he started with.

 

Mark rolls his eyes. "I wish," he mutters, referring to his sad state of soberness. He's almost exhausted enough to miss the way Roger's frame tightens up, but it would be hard to ignore the growl. Mark collapses against the wall next to his door, not sure he can stand on his own for however long this conversation is going to go on. "Look, Roger, I was just at SBNY-"

 

Wrong thing to say. Roger pushes himself off the counter. He's started pacing, which is never a good sign. "So, what, you were just out to some gay club for nine hours? Not even bothering to tell me where the hell you were, just disappearing."

 

Mark isn't up for a fight. "Roger, I was just helping Maureen." He starts massaging at the pounding locked up in his temple. He didn't remember this being quite so much of a habit before Roger had used it to apologize. Now it is almost constant.

 

"I'm sick of it," Roger says, stopping right in front of Mark. Dangerously close, with how anger he looks. Mark would rather have a nice room size between them at the moment. "I'm sick of all these guys getting to stare at you."

 

Mark shifted uncomfortable against the wall. This isn't normal. Roger should be telling him he's whipped or laughing at situations he let's his ex drag him into. "Guys don't stare-"

 

Roger doesn't care. He's ranting, and nothing Mark says is going to stop him. "And it was alright when I didn't know you were staring back but now, fuck, Mark. I've been your friend for ages and I'm not allowed to touch you or stare at you or want you but it's okay for you to go out with some guy on the street you don't even know?"

 

Mark is asleep. Mark has passed out on his way home. Mark is so out of it that he's hallucinating. "Wh-What?" Any second now, he'll regain his powers of thought and speech. Or maybe just wake up.

 

On second thought, he likes it in this world. Roger is against Mark, slamming Mark into the cold wall. A pain shots through his shoulders when they hit the back wall and Roger's lips are crashing down on his so that their noses are smashed together and their teeth clash and, God, Mark hasn't brushed his teeth since yesterday. It's awkward and nothing like his perfectly shaped fantasies. Real and wet and please and God, he's really not dreaming this up.

 

Roger pulls away, biting down on Mark's lower lip just a little too hard. "Tell me to stop," he says, dragging Mark's lip out between his teeth. His hands go around Mark's waist, slipping under the band of his jeans, pulling their bodies together. "Tell me to fuck off." A sharp pain shots up Mark's neck when Roger bites down, quickly quelled when Roger takes the flesh into his mouth, sucking and licking and branding Mark. His hands curl around Mark's ass, grinding their hip together, Mark stuck between the cold wall and Roger's hot skin. Trying to keep himself grounded enough that he can thrust to meet Roger's pace. "Punch me," Roger says, biting and sucking and biting and licking until Mark's voice is nothing but a mix of cries and moans. "Come on, Mark."

 

Mark's nails dig into Roger's shoulders, causing the other boy to shiver and gasp, slamming Mark back into the wall again. Hard enough that Mark's next moan is in pain, but neither boy slows down. "No." Mark aches his neck back, offering Roger anything he wants. "No stopping."

 

Roger's growl sends blood straight to Mark's already aching cock. His hands dig into Mark's skin hard enough to leave bruises. "I hate them." Mark groans, spread his legs so far apart he nearly falls, only catching himself on Roger's thigh as he presses up against Mark's groin. "Fucking hate Daniel." Mark's sweater is pushes aside as Roger looks for fresh skin to bite. Mark pressed down, riding the leg as the pressure in his balls tightens and it feels like he's going to explode if he doesn't get these jeans off. "Hate all those guys who stare at you." Mark slides forward, fingers curling into the backside of Roger's jeans as he tries to meet each thrust with one of his own. He is nearly flush against Roger's chest, feet only touching the floor enough that he can pump his straining cock against Roger's thigh. "Imagining you like this. Wanting you like this."

 

Roger's voice sounds so fucking wonderful, and Mark wants to get in on this little game they're playing. "I love it." His voice is strained from all the choke back whines and screams. He licks up Roger's ear, teeth scraping along the shell. A soft moan and he's being pulled impossibly close. So close he can feel the hard beat of blood through Roger's cock as he grinds their hips together. "I want to be fucked and ridden and used and - fuck."

 

Mark is pretty sure Roger draws blood when he bites down this time. There is the sound of what might be a zipper tearing off, but more important is the feel of Roger's rough fingers circling his cock. Hard and fast and "Yes" and tight and "God, Roger" and nothing coherent is left before red flashes behind Mark's eyes and he's screaming, his whole body trembling as the orgasm rips through him.

 

It's amazing that Mark ends up standing, although most of his weight is against the wall. Roger is one his knees, his forehead resting against Mark's thigh. Mark has never wanted his camera as much as he does right this moment. There is Roger, all breathless and beautiful with sweat dripping of his hair and hand and jeans covered in cum.

 

"Shit," Roger mutters, shaking his head. Mark flinches, choking back laughter when Roger's hair gel spiked brushes against his inner thigh. "Mark, I'm- Shit."

 

There are times when you have to think about things, figure out your life and all the mistakes you've made. There are those times, and then there are times when all thoughts and worries should be put on hold for really great sex. Mark is voting for the second option at the moment. He takes Roger's hand, pulling the other boy to his feet. "We should go to bed," Mark says, walking backwards towards his room, never letting go off Roger's hand. "I think we need to sleep on this."

 

Sleep be damned.


	4. Chapter 4

Slam! Against the wall hard enough to shake the counters. Lips and heat and not enough skin.

 

In between the touches and the kisses and the moans, Mark manages to mutter something that sounds like, "Be back soon." Roger hardly registers what he says and doesn't attempt a reply. He's grinding his still clothed erection against Mark's, and right now he really hates jeans. He's hands are busy keeping Mark pressed against the wall, holding onto the legs that are hooked around his waist.

 

Mark is moaning, moving as if he's riding Roger and the offer is so damn tempting. "Promise?" How can Mark be all flushed and desperate and wanton and still speak? Roger knows his voice is completely gone. He doesn't even attempt to answer, just attacks Mark's mouth, teeth clashing as he tries to meld them together. Tongue and wet and needy whimpers.

 

After packing the van, Roger told the guys he just had to make one quick stop back home. He just wanted to get in one last goodbye before they head out. What possessed him to do it, he wasn't sure. He'd already said goodbye to everyone, and anything else he tried to say to Mark would just sound awkward and idiotic. All the way to the loft he tried to think up some decent reason why he wanted to see Mark one last time. Something honest but not cheesy. Even climbing up the stairs of building 508, Roger didn't have the slightest clue where to begin. Even if he'd thought up something, it would have scattered the second he unlocked the front door.

 

Mark was already waiting for him, leaning back against the table completely shirtless so that the red collar around his neck jumped out compared to his pale pink skin. Roger just stands there like a tongue-tied virgin until he has every inch of Mark memorized. The slight spread of his legs, the line of blond hair leading past the waistband of his jeans, the collar bobbing as he swallowed.

 

The staring was obviously not part of Mark's plan. He started to fidget, grinning nervously when Roger finally got around to meeting his eyes and breathing again. "Surprise?" He reached up, slipping a finger between the collar and his throat. The gesture is more nervous than seductive, but Roger nearly moaned. "I thought it would be a good going away present."

 

Any blood left in Roger's system dropped south at that point.

 

Mark chuckled and looked upward so he couldn't see Roger's eyes digging into him. "I think Benny left it here." Mark's finger traveled back and fourth, pulling the collar this way and that. It's hypnotic. On the silver dog tag, Roger can see the word 'EVITA'. Mark tried to laugh again, pulling his hand away from his neck and shrugging. "I couldn't find a red ribbon. I know, lame, right? I'm sorry, I just tho-"

 

That marked the end of the conversation.

 

"Roger?" Mark moans, interrupting Roger's very important thoughts on how he can let go of Mark long enough to get out of his pants. Mark tries to say something else but it turns into a breathy whine, one of those pleading noses that go straight to Roger's cock that helps fight off any coherent thoughts that might have formed. "Roger?"

 

"Mmm..." It's either an answer or a moan. Roger's not even sure which. He just knows that he needs to get out of these clothes and into bed. Everything else, the waiting band and the outside world and that knocking sound in the background; none of that is important.

 

"I think." Right now Mark is getting to that stage right before he starts thrashing and whimpering and pleading with Roger. It's that trembling that passes through his body, the way he licks his lips and closes his eyes like he's clinging to the last of his control. In the last three weeks Roger has learned to love that look. He's learned a lot more, too. Like if he can get Mark's wrists pinned to the wall and whispers all the things he wants to do into Mark's ear he can have him coming without even touching him. He's so fucking beautiful when he comes like that, panting and whimpering and begging for Roger.

 

"I think," He's down to raspy, shallow breaths. Right now if Roger backs away Mark will open his eyes, dark and hooded and with just one stare Roger will be even harder than he is now. And Mark will just know what Roger wants, almost on instinct. He'll push Roger into bed, pouncing on top of him and going over every inch with his tongue and teeth and lips until Roger is reduced to half finished moans and mouthing nonsensical words. "your band."

 

Right now that little voice begins eating away at Roger. He'll try and push it back, black out all the evil little whispers it feeds him. Mark will help, distracting him with moans and teeth, but eventually it will catch up to them. It's the reason Roger will back away scared after Mark comes, shaking slightly and still hard when he retreats to his room. Or why he'll pull away before Mark can slip the condom on, stumbling out of the loft telling Mark he has somewhere to be or something to do. Hiding out for a few hours until the other boy is asleep or filming and they won't have to talk about what almost happened.

 

Right now Mark is moaning, threading his fingers through Roger's hair and yanking his head up to kiss him and everything else fades away for a while. "Your band," Mark repeats, pulling back just enough to speak. Roger strains against the other boy's grip, trying to get back to those bruised lips.

 

Somewhere in the background there is that damn knocking sound again. From the other side of the door Theo yells, "Roger, would you hurry the fuck up!"

 

The band is here. Shit. "Shit," Roger answers. He looks between the door and Mark. Mark offers a half smile, shrugging his shoulders when the knocking continues. The pink flush in his skin clashes horribly with the red collar. The silver tag hanging from the center is glistening with sweat, pooling at his collarbone and dripping down his chest. Roger follows one, watching it disappear between their stomachs. He's pressed flush against Mark whose legs are clenched around Roger's waist in such a fuck me sort of way, pressing them together until the only thing between them is skin. The knocking has become background nose again. "They can wait."

 

Mark's head makes a loud thump against the wall when he arches back, grinding against the thigh slipped between his legs.

 

From the front door Daniel yells, "Hurry and fuck your boyfriend and get out here! We've gotta leave!"

 

"Fuck off!" Roger yells at the door, sending his best glare their way even if they can't see him. He turns back to Mark, intent on going back to kissing. Only Mark doesn't look as desperate anymore. He has a hand over his mouth to hide a smile, and the way he's shaking isn't related to Roger's prowess. So maybe Roger is out of practice. He's never been laughed at before. "What's so funny?"

 

Mark shakes his head. He's about as red as he can get expect for that one time Maureen thought it might be a good idea to see if the pale blond boy tanned if left in the sun for an hour. "It's not funny," Mark says. "It's...." The sound he makes is somewhere between snickering and a sob.

 

"Roger! We mean it. We will break in if you don't hurry your ass up." Now Simon is getting into the yelling match.

 

Mark's next moan is less sexy and more out of frustration. At least he's not laughing at him anymore. "Go," he instructs. "I think they might be serious, and there is no way in hell we can replace the door."

 

Roger raises an eyebrow. "That door is solid metal. Besides," he says, running a hand down Mark's arm. Another trick he's learned is this little action will reduce Mark to content sighs. "They can wait five minutes."

 

"Five?" Mark asks, playfully smiling up at Roger. "Don't tell me that's all you have in you." If it weren't for the situation, this would have just been plain old Mark and Roger banter. Somewhere in his mind, that evil little voice lightens up just a little.

 

Roger leans forward, placing a gentle kiss on Mark's lips. "Make it twenty."

 

Mark makes a low sound of agreement before returning the kiss turning it less chaste, so deep and sensual Roger's whole body aches. Right as he's really getting into it, starting to push Mark back against the wall, the other boy is sucking Roger's lower lip between his teeth to draw out one last moan before he pulls again.

 

The loud knocking is almost a constant this entire time. "What the hell are you two doing in there?"

 

Mark leans against the wall, closing his eyes and fighting to draw in more than a shallow breath. Suddenly Roger gets his obsession with film. He wants to get this in picture form, remember this look forever because it's for him, because of him, and he needs this.

 

He runs a calluses thumb over Mark's tender lower lip, unable not to touch. Mark sighs, tongue following Roger's path. Against the pad of his finger he whispers, "Five weeks isn't that long, is it?"

 

"Roger, I am going to fucking kill you!"

 

Roger chuckles, breaking the moment between them. He isn't sure he could have taken that peace that had settled over him much longer, anyway. "Five weeks without sex, Mark? You really think I can make it?" Safe, best friend banter that has nothing to do with diseases, fears, or emotions he doesn't want to think about.

 

Mark laughs, pushing himself off the wall. His hand snakes down between them, cupping Roger through the already straining denim of his jeans. He's wearing that cocky little grin Roger is pretty sure he didn't even have until he moved to New York and it just makes him groan that much louder. It's unfair, teasing him like that while he's band mates are threatening him through the walls. "Oh," Mark says, releasing Roger who suddenly feeling a little shaky on his legs. "I think you can handle it on your own."

 

*

 

Five weeks isn't long enough to start missing someone.

 

The buildings of New York slowly start to spread thin outside the van window. Roger leans against the cool glass, hoping the easy ride and quick passing scenery will rock him to sleep. The rest of the band is chatting excitedly around him, but that's not what Roger is trying to block out.

 

It's not that he wants to forget all about Mark. Roger snorts, breath fogging up the windows. Not that he could forget about Mark, even if that had been his intention. Mark has stuck through so much that it is impossible to pull Mark out of his mind without removing part of Roger. That's not what he wants. He just needs to be able to fall asleep without tossing and turning, wondering if he's screwing everything they have up with what they're doing. He just needs a few days were he doesn't have to worry if this will be the time he gives in or forgets the condom and then it's all over. He has experience with being on the road and knows if he doesn't get these thoughts of Mark out of his head, he won't be able to think about any thing else for five weeks.

 

By the time the last skyscraper is gone from the rear view mirror, Roger is still awake and completely unable to think of anything that isn't Mark.

 

Mark. Mark. Funny, talent Mark. The boho boy who truly could make it places. Definitely the one with the best shot of getting out of this hellhole they try and pass off as their life, with the drive and vision to get things done. Mark would say that isn't true. Mark would tell Roger that Collins is doing great on his own, and that Roger has this tour to look forward to, but the other two guys know better than to believe a word the filmmaker says. Mark is really the one who can change the world with his work.

 

Roger is a fucking selfish bastard to put that in jeopardy.

 

That voice that breaks them apart, the one that Roger can't beat back, that's the fear and the guilt. It's always there. Every time Roger touches Mark he can feel it, beating right beneath his skin. Of course, he still has to touch Mark, to kiss him, to get himself so worked up that the second he's back in his own room he hardly has to grab himself through his pants before he's coming. He knows it's wrong. He shouldn't even be allowed to get that close to Mark, but it's two horny boys spending most of their time in loft together, both having been denied sex for a while now. Of course it's going to happen. Roger just needs to remember to back off before they pass a certain point.

 

He's not the only one running away from this.

 

At first, Roger didn't even think about it. He figured his fear would be enough for both of them, and Mark didn't need any other reason for spending every night in his own bed even when Roger's just across the loft. Roger had been so caught up in his own faults he didn't even think Mark might have other reasons to be wary of a real relationship.

 

It wasn't until that voice in the back of Roger's head was cut off for a while that he noticed. He came running from backstage after their last show, grabbing Mark and smashing their lips together without a word. Excitement had been rushing through him so fast it felt like a hit of heroin. He wasn't thinking about relationships or AIDS or anything like that.

 

"I just talked with Jon Bateman," Roger said once he had to let go off Mark's lips for lack of air. "He wants us to tour with his band." And there it was, flashing across Mark's face so quickly he might have missed it. Only, Roger knows Mark and he knows that look. Distancing himself before he got hurt. But he couldn't even ask about it before Mark was smiling up at him.

 

"Great," He lied, and both of them knew it but neither was willing to say it. Just as they didn't talk about Roger's diseases, they couldn't bring up Mark's fear of being abandoned.

 

"So how's the sex?"

 

It seems to Roger he gets pulled out of New York when that voice interrupts his thoughts, even if they're already miles outside the city limits. It even takes him a second to figure out where he is again. "Huh?" Roger pushes off the window, turning to stare at Daniel. He knows he didn't hear that right.

 

Daniel winces, laughing nervously and running a hand through his messy black hair. Unlike Simon, Roger, and Theo, Daniel tends to be a little less obvious about his emotions. It has to be the first time Roger's ever seen him look worried. "Just kidding," he says before Roger even has the chance to get mad. "Look, I didn't know you two were-"

 

"We're not," Roger answers, a little too quickly and he knows it. Visions of Mark looking hurt flicker through his mind. He shakes his head, trying to get rid of a brand new wave of guilt. It only been three weeks, most of which had been spent necking like teenagers. Not exactly relationship quality. They didn't even want it to be like that, did they? Neither of them had brought it up.

 

Daniel shrugs, like he expected this sort of answer from Roger. "Whatever. I just want you to know I didn't mean anything by it, okay?"

 

"What are you two whispering about!" Simon yells from the front, twisting around until he's on his knees looking back at Roger and Dan. His brother Chris, who'd agreed to drive the van to California and back for them, smacks Simon across the head.

 

"Seat belt now, you asshole," He snaps. "Or else you're paying for the fucking ticket."

 

Simon plops back in his seat, making a show off pulling his belt on. He grows for the radio and gets smacked again.

 

Theo is spread over the seat in front of them. He looks back at the other two, rolling his eyes. "It's going to be like this the whole fucking way." He holds up a disc player, waving it under their noses. "Should have prepared, dudes."

 

Daniel leans over the front seats, and it's probably a good thing Simon and Chris were yelling at each other or else he might have noticed that none of the other band members were buckled in, either. "What you listening to?"

 

Roger leans his head back against the glass and stares out at the other cars, zipping around the freeway trying to make their way out of their city, looking for another type of paradise. Already, Roger is missing the August heat, the crowded subway lines, the trash piling over the streets of Alphabet city, even the crazy homeless Mark is so intent on filming. He blocks out the rest of the guys as they yell and talk music. Already, he's missing Mark. Forget five weeks, he didn't even make it five hours.

 

*

Four days. Four days. Four days.

 

Four day drive from New York to L.A, where they were meeting up with the other two bands they'd be opening for. The van is parked just outside of the city, less than an hour out according to Simon. He had wanted to drive straight in, but Roger had groaned and bitched and eventually got him to break down. By the time he finally pulled into a gas station, Theo is the only thing keeping the bassist from reaching back and strangling Roger.

 

He doesn't care if the whole van wants him dead. Roger is out before they even come to a stop, digging through his pockets until he can find enough spare change for a phone call. Before he can get to far, Simon rolls down the window and yells, "What the fuck are we doing here, Rog?"

 

Daniel and Theo follow Roger out to stretch their legs. The way the Vera brothers drive allows for about two stops a day and they're hardly complaining that Roger finally annoyed them into another break from the van, which is starting to smell more than a little funky. "Checking in with the wife," Dan teases, and Theo nearly falls over either from laughing too hard or having not moved his legs in a couple of hours. Roger flicks them off. He's been deflecting lots of these types of jokes from Daniel. Usually they leave him feeling awkward, scared that some one is going top pick up on how close to the truth they were. It barely registers now. He doesn't care about anything expect finding a payphone.

 

"Call me when you get to California," Mark had said, and Roger laughed and called him on acting like an over worried mother. "My mom would have you call every hour, on the hour."

 

Strange thing is, Roger wants to call him every hour anyway.

 

Four days without talking to Mark. It's not like Mark told him to check in every night. Just once he got to California. Mark doesn't need to know where he is every hour of the day.

 

Four days trying to convince himself that he won't be disappointed when Mark has called off whatever the hell is was they had been messing around with before he left. Four days telling himself that Mark and him are just good friends that messed around for a bit, but it all meant nothing. Roger could make it mean nothing.

 

He's trembling so bad that he messes up their number twice before he manages to stop shaking and dial. He wants to scream when the phone rings three times only to pick up with a, "SPEAK!"

 

"Mark?" Fuck, he's not even home. Roger looks around for a clock, wondering what time it is back in New York. He should have figured out the difference sooner, but the second they crossed over state lines Roger had been bouncing in the seat, begging with Simon to pull over. "Mark, it's Roger I was just-"

 

"ROGER!" Roger jumps back, nearly dropping the phone when he gets his own named yelled into his ear. "Roger? Roger is that you?"

 

He wants to think up something sarcastic to say to tease Mark about, but all he manages is, "Hey there."

 

Hey there? Who the fuck says hey there. Roger rolls his eyes, hitting his head against the phone case.

 

"I've been... I mean, I just got through the door," Mark says. His voice is excited, rushed, and makes Roger's stomach twist in ways he'd rather not think about. "So you're in LA?"

 

"Just outside, actually." I forced the guys to pull over so I could call you. I would have done it sooner, but I didn't want to seem desperate. "We had to fill up the tank one last time."

 

Chris yells, "Could you hurry the fuck up? We're already hitting rush hour!"

 

"I'm glad you called," Mark says. Roger wants to know how glad. Glad you're not sick, glad. Glad because I'm your friend glad. Glad since I've figured out I can't go a day without you glad. He needs something a little more solid than just glad. "I figured you'd get so caught up, you might forget."

 

"Forget? I promised I'd call, didn't I? I can't forget you Mark," Roger says, leaning closer to the phone in hopes Mark won't hear the band yelling at him. They'd already been through that. "You're my best friend. I wasn't just going to abandon you." Even as he's saying it, he's begging Mark to tell them they're more than just friends. What he gets instead if an awkward pause on the other end. Fuck, he'd screwed up. He shouldn't have mentioned leaving.

 

Mark clears his throat before asking, "Have you bee taking your AZT."

 

Roger sighs, pressing his hot forehead against the cold, dirty plastic of the phone case. "Yes, mom."

 

"Roger, I'm serious. What if you get sick on the road?"

 

"I'm fine," Roger says, getting a little annoyed at this conversation. Honestly, why does every one think he's incapable of taking care of himself. Not that he's done anything to ever prove them differently, but it's annoying.

 

Besides, all these miles away when they weren't in any danger, couldn't they just pretend that Roger is healthy and happy? He closes his eyes, listen to Mark prattle on about how he isn't worried, just anxious or something like that, and it would be so easy to pretend that Roger's never made any major mistakes. That he's just making another one of his daily phone calls back to his boyfriend.

 

Boyfriend, Roger thinks as his eyes pop up, where had that word even come from?

 

"Can I send you something?" Mark asks. Him and Mark weren't dating. Fuck, not even Mimi had really ever called him a boyfriend. Roger is delusional.

 

"Roger? Hello? Roger, are you still there?" Roger had never been good at relationships. April had gone to a couple of his shows and ended up staying in his bed for two years. Mimi breaks into the loft and Roger falls for her in less than a week. Even if Mark's been around longer than Roger had ever managed to keep a girl, it seems wrong to think they could have an actual relationship. Roger's always known his style of falling in love. It's quick and passionate and doesn't make sense. Wanting Mark after spending all this time with him, that's one thing. Friendship turning into something else? Roger isn't sure. He's never had that happen before.

 

"Roger? Fuck, you're not there are-"

 

Mark's voice finally brings Roger back to their phone call. "Mark?" He shouts it before Mark can get any ideas about hanging up on him. "Mark? Hey, sorry. The.. The reception got really shitty there for a second."

 

"It's okay," Mark says, and Roger's happy to be able to pick out the relief in his voice. Good to know Roger's not the only one who doesn't want to hang up. "You can hear me now, right?"

 

"Yeah, yeah." Simon honks loud enough to make Roger jump. He flicks him off, not even thinking about telling Mark goodbye yet. "What were you saying?"

 

"I want to send you something," Mark repeats. "A surprise. From New York."

 

Simon's saying something about traffic and being on time. Chris is yelling that Simon's got them fucked up. Can't anyone but him read a map? "A video?" Roger asks, wondering what the hell possessed him to go on a road trip with these people.

 

"Shut up!" Mark fires back, but he doesn't sound upset and Roger just laughs at him. "What do you want to see? The Life? The loft? CBGBs without their best act on stage?"

 

Roger shifts the phone to his other ear as he thinks this over. "I've been there all my life," Roger says after a few seconds of fishing his mind and coming up empty. "I don't think I need to see any more of the fucking loft than I have these past five years."

 

"Come on, Roger," Mark insists, and he can hear Mark stumble with something. Roger rolls his eyes, knows his friend has his camera aimed at the phone. "Don't turn into a west cost sell out just yet. There has to be something in New York that you miss."

 

Without thinking, Roger answers, "you."

 

*

 

One week, three days. One week, three days. One week, three days.

 

Roger is watching the calendar they had pinned inside the tour bus, waiting for the next day to be crossed off. He's taken to glaring at it, blaming the object for not making time move any faster.

 

Still one week, three days. That's another three weeks and four days until they got back to New York.

 

Not that he's in a hurry to get back. He loves every show, the energy of the crowds and the new fans wandering up to him once he's off stage. It's ten times better than moving from small bar to small bar back in the city. The shows were fucking amazing, and he isn't looking forward to giving them up.

 

It's just every other second of the day when he remembers how much he hates being on the road. He misses knowing his way around the streets. Misses sleeping in the same bed every night, no matter how uncomfortable that bed might be. Misses not being stuffed into a tour bus for what felt to his legs like weeks a time. Roger is like a caged tiger, about to go insane and strike out at anyone who gets too close. He needs to get free every now and then, to have time to himself to clear his head. He needs release from this stifling, exhausting trip around country. If his trip to Santa Fe had been bad, it was nothing compared to this. At least then there hadn't been people, people, and more people constantly around.

 

Roger jumps when a package is dropped in his lap without warning. Theo walks right by him, collapsing in a chair and taking out a cigarette. "Next time, get your own damn mail."

 

Roger picks up the small cardboard box covered in so much duck tape he's not even sure where it opens. "Couldn't find the fucking post office." He shakes it and gets a dull thud in reply.

 

Mark kept promising to send him something to remind him of home "in case you forget and run off again." Roger didn't mention that the real problem is he can't get the city out of his head. Running off to Santa Fe had proven to Roger that New York would always call him back.

 

"I'm going to the hotel," Roger says, holding the package as close as a kid would a teddy bear. It's a little pathetic, but he's not too concerned what Theo thinks. He's already heading off the bus and up to his room.

 

It's not that he misses Mark desperately or anything. It just takes him nine tries before he can get the door open. Not that he's shaking with excitement, but he trips over his own shoes on his way inside.

 

After ripping through what seems like three layers of tape Roger's finally pulled the video free of its box. He chuckles under his breath, making a note to comment to Mark about his wrapping skills before popping the tape in the VCR. He ends up fiddling around with buttons and knobs for a frustrating five minutes before calling up the front desk. Explaining that no, he didn't have a VCR at home and Mark never let him touch the projector. No, Mark isn't his boyfriend. Well, maybe, he's not really- and what is the girl giggling at anyway, just tell him how to get the damn thing working.

 

She tells him which buttons to press and a shaky image of his bedroom comes onto screen. It looks the exact same as when he'd left only the pile of junk on the bed has all been pushed off. The screen is jostled this way and that for a few seconds before Mark's face comes into focus.

 

He smiles at Roger and even if it's silly and just a tape, Roger smiles back.

 

"Hey, Roger," Mark says, picture flicking on and off a few times before he has the camera set exactly the way he wants it to. Roger laughs, settling back on the bed to watch Mark obsesses over getting the camera set perfectly on Roger's dresser. After a few minutes of cursing, he comes back on. "I thought you might... Shit," Mark mutters, standing up and Roger can tell he's adjusting his glasses even if the only thing he can see is the red and black star of his shirt. His muffled voice adds, "I shouldn't be doing this."

 

It's not what Roger expected. He figures Mark would send him something like a documentary. 'Life In New York Without Roger Davis' or something to that extant. He expected to laugh over Mark's over dramatic telling of his absence, his witty humor coming from behind the lens like usual. Seeing Mark in front of the camera had been nice, but now it's just making Roger nervous.

 

In his mind he can picture Mark making some kind of confession to the camera. A thousand different words fly through Roger's head, ranging from "I love you" to "I'm positive" and all of them leave Roger's stomach in knots.

 

"Don't fucking do this to me, Mark," Roger mutters, finger tearing nervously at one of the many holes in his jeans. He's not sure he can take that sort of thing, not like this. Mark might feel more comfortable pouring his heart out to a camera but if Roger had to hear these things he doesn't want it to be electronically, thousands of miles away.

 

Mark sits on the edge of the bed, not even looking directly at the camera. "I'm going to make a fool out of myself, I know it." Roger gets up, taking a step toward the TV with the intention of turning it off and calling Mark, demanding to know what they hell is wrong with him.

 

He stops just short of the power button when Mark starts tugging off his shirt. "I just want you to know, Maureen totally talked me into this."

 

Roger sits back down.

 

The red flush in Mark's cheeks spreads all the way down his chest. All his clothes are thrown off screen, his hands sliding up and down his legs. Roger chuckles as if he can break away at Mark's awkwardness, or to lessen the anxiety and shock pooling in his own stomach.

 

Propped up on one elbow, Mark's hand goes up his thigh and this time doesn't go lower again. The film hasn't quite hit Roger yet. This couldn't be what he thought it was. Had to be some kind of dream. Would Mark actually send him something like this?

 

Mark whimpers as he rubs his thumb over the head of his cock. Roger's entire body jumps to tell him yes, it's real.

 

Without looking away for the screen Roger starts fumbling with the zipper of his own pants. Mark stops for a second and looks straight at the camera, like he knows Roger is staring at him. "Please don't stop," Roger says, hand shoved roughly down his boxers as he takes in every inch of Mark's skin in case the boy chickens out and goes back to make some boring documentary about sights Roger has seen all his fucking life, anyway. "Fuck, Mark, you can't stop now."

 

He listens. Mark sits up on bed, still thrusting into his hand. Fingers graze of his nipples, up his neck, rubbing gently over his lips. Roger moans his thanks. Mark's lips form a tight ring around two fingers, cheeks hollowed as they slip in and out of his mouth. Roger's hand tights around his cock, fighting not to close his eyes. Even if he did, this image would have been burned inside him. Switched up, with Mark on his knees, lips strained around him. Even if this they're thousands of miles apart, Roger tips his head back and tells Mark, "Yes."

 

There it is, right behind his eyelids. Mark crawling up the bed of the hotel, yanking Roger's jeans off and without a word dropping between his legs. The way his fingers slide in and out of his mouth, that's the way he treats Roger's cock. The hands that are pumping his erection, they twist into Mark's hair, falling back onto the bed as he leads the boy's mouth up and down until he's moaning in time with the video.

 

Mark's hand travels down his chest, around his thigh, dipping lower between his legs leaving a glistening trail of spit behind on his over heated skin. It's not the best angle, but it's obvious what Mark's doing. Especially when he leans back, biting his lip and groaning. Roger's own fingers are slipping inside him like that with Mark's nails digging into the headrest as Roger teases him. In, out, in, out. As slow as Mark's hand is moving now, keeping him right at the brink.

 

He tells the boy on screen, "Harder."

 

Mark thrusts back against his hand, tensing suddenly and nearly collapsing backwards before he regains his balance, still thrusting down onto his fingers, moaning, "Roger."

 

"Roger," he moans when the musician's rough fingers curl inside him. Body tensing as he thrusts back, whining and unable to feel anything but the heat coiled in him ready to snap. Roger leans over him, adding another finger until Mark is full and loving it and rocking his hips so hard Roger has to hold him back.

 

"You want more?" He whispers into Mark's ear, nipping at any vulnerable flesh he can find.

 

In his bed, Mark falls backwards. His toes curl into the sheets as he thrusts into his hand. "Yess..." He moans, still riding his fingers. His other hand falls from his cock, twisting into the bed until he's holding on to the mattress. "Roger, yes."

 

"Fuck."

 

Roger's instant reaction is to fly at the screen, hitting the power button before he even takes his hand out of his pants. It's too late, though. Daniel's already seen part of the show.

 

Roger turns around, putting on his most threatening glare as he zips up his jeans. Dan seems oblivious, still staring at the now black TV set. "Fuck," he repeats, licking his lips as if too stunned to do anything else. No matter how much he hates him right now, Roger can definitely feel for him.

 

"What the hell-" Roger coughs, clearly the hoarse grumble from his voice. "What the hell are you doing here?"

 

Daniel has to actually look away from the TV to answer. He dangles his keycard. "I sleep here, man." He rolls his eyes, pocketing the key and moving past Roger to his own bed. Roger just continues to stand there, wondering how he could be so stupid as to not dead bolt the door. "So... You going to finish watching the tape."

 

With Dan being so casual about it, Roger can't find it in him to take a swing at his drummer. It doesn't mean he doesn't want to. Still fuming, he falls back on the edge of his bed, eyes stuck on the blacken TV. "Shut up." It's all he can think about.

 

"Thought you weren't dating him," Daniel says. He's calm about the whole thing. Like he walks in on his band mates masturbating to sex videos their male roommate sends them all the time. Roger groans, burring his head in his hands. Maybe he can massage this whole situation away, or at least the dull pounding that's start up just under his skull. "Seems pretty... serious for you guys not dating."

 

"Shut up," Roger repeats, still rubbing soothing little circle into his temple, hoping Daniel will get the message. "We're not... dating."

 

"So, what, you're just messing around?"

 

"No," Roger snaps, glaring at his drummer, and Daniel has enough sense to flop down on his bed and turn away, closing off the conversation.

 

No, Roger isn't just messing around with Mark. Messing around is something he did with groupies, before he knew better. Messing around is something guys do in high school. Messing around is not what he does with his best friend, the only person able to stick around no matter how bad he gets, and he's gotten plenty bad before. They weren't messing around, they were just getting more intimate, that's all.

 

Shit, Roger thinks, he better not be messing around with Mark. He doesn't want to mess around with Mark. Sure, he wants to touch him and kiss him and be with him, but he doesn't want to screw up their friendship. Doesn't want to hurt Mark. So what is it, then? He doesn't want to mess around with Mark, but he doesn't want to screw him up, either.

 

"Fuck," Roger groans, pressing his fingers harder underneath his hair. It doesn't help. "Fuck. Fuck. Fuck."

 

"Unless you're actually planning to," Daniel calls from the other bed. "Please shut up about it."


	5. Chapter 5

"Tickets."

 

Joanne raises an eyebrow, giving Mark the look of a woman who has to put up with far too much insanity to add this to the list. "Mark?"

 

With a slight laugh and huge grin, Mark waves the paper envelope in front of Joanne's face. "Roger sent the tickets!"

 

Looking like she was afraid to ask, Joanne moves aside and ushers Mark into the apartment. "Nice to see you, too, Mark." Mark smiles and plants a quick kiss on Joanne's cheek. The woman pauses for a second, raising a hand to her face before laughing. She shakes her head and closes the door as Mark bounces all the way inside. "In a good mood?"

 

"They're for the 31st," Mark explains. "That's in five days."

 

Before Mark can get another word out, a high-pitched voice breaks through the small living room. "Pookie!" Both of Joanne and Mark turn around, but while Joanne answers with another eye roll Mark nearly chokes to death.

 

Patting him on the back to help the cough, Joanne says, "It's alright. I've already told her she looks like Bozo the Clown."

 

Maureen's once stringy brown hair, which had turned blonde and curly last time Mark had seen her, was now a bright, vibrant red. Maureen stood at the doorway of the bathroom, half of her hair hanging limp and straight while the other was still in it's tight curls but all of it was roughly the color of a neon sign. Maureen seems to soak in Mark's attention, either oblivious to why his jaw is hanging open or else not caring. She smiles, the one that used to leave Mark weak and swooning, and flips the straight section of her hair over her shoulder.

 

"Maureen!" Joanne groans, rubbing her temple a bit. "Put a shirt on."

 

"Oh, come on, Pookie," Maureen coos, bouncing just enough to bring Mark's attention from her hair to her chest. "It's not like he hasn't seen them before."

 

With a loud, angry sounding sigh Joanne walks across the apartment and gives Maureen a slight shove back into the bathroom. "And I'm sure he's seen them quite enough. Now, finish straightening your hair and put a shirt on." With the bathroom door shut and Maureen safely out of view, Joanne falls back against the door and shakes her head. "Sorry about that."

 

"No," Mark says, forcing his eyes back up to female face level. "No, it's alright. Just Maureen being..."

 

"Are you guys talking about me?" Maureen yells through the door, with just enough lift in her voice that Mark can tell that's what she wants.

 

"Anyway," Joanne cuts in, loud enough for Maureen to hear them changing the subject. "what were you saying about your tickets?"

 

"Oh..." Mark has the decency to turn as bright red as Maureen's hair. So maybe he shouldn't have been staring at his ex-girlfriend's breasts (no matter how obviously they were presented) while holding ticket to his boyfriend's (if that was the right word) concert. It seemed wrong somehow, not to mention shouldn't Mark be over Maureen already?

 

No, that's crazy. Mark will never get over Maureen. Maybe he's not crazy enough to go crawling back to her anymore, but getting over her would take an act of God. Or a deal with the devil.

 

Joanne walks over to Mark, patting him on the shoulder as if she knows what he's thinking. "Look," she says, voice a little softer than usual. "I feel I should warn you. Maureen, she's scheming again." Mark looks at Joanne, utterly nonplussed. "She's trying to see if she can, you know, get a rise out of you." Joanne makes a wild, non-helpful hand gesture that just confuses Mark even more.

 

Mark looks from Joanne to the bathroom and tries to remember why he came over here in the first place. "What?"

 

" _ You _ know," Joanne says, sounding exasperated. Mark takes some comfort in knowing most of that probably just comes from dealing with Maureen day in and day out. "She wants to see if she can make you straight."

 

Mark tries to work reason into that statement and fails. "Maureen wants to see if I'm still straight?" Mark asks, one hundred percent sure he must have heard that wrong. "But she's a lesbian."

 

"That never stopped you from loving her before," Joanne points out. "Besides, I think she's just scared."

 

This idea seems oddly pleasing to Mark if it weren't for the small chance of Maureen bouncing over to the loft shirtless. Having her worry about her own sexual prowess would be good payback for the months Mark had spent agonizing over her leaving him. Having to explain to Roger why Maureen has started clinging to her like they're dating again doesn't sound half as fun. "I'm bi," Mark clarifies.

 

"I told her if anyone changed your mind, it was Roger," Joanne says with a shrug, glancing over to the bathroom for Maureen's next entrance. "I'm not sure what hurt worse. Finding out you were gay-"

 

"Bi," Mark corrects. Joanne gives him a look that makes him feel foolish for even thinking it, but Mark's been taking time to figure out why the hell he spends so much time fantasying about boys but still stops to stare when he sees pretty girls on the street. Until Collins called him an idiot for taking so long to figure it out. Collins always had a way of making these things seem so easy and obvious; the anti-Mark and Roger, who had to see everything as hard and complicated.

 

"-Or finding out it wasn't her doing."

 

"She's a very confusing girl," Mark says, nodding with the expertise of someone who had put up with it for far too long. With all her energy and spunk, it's easy to forget how fragile Maureen's ego can get. She's a lot like Roger in that respect.

 

Mark pauses, thinking about that for a few seconds. Okay, never have that thought again.

 

"She is," Joanne says, and even while she looks annoyed and upset, Mark can still see the smile tugging at the corners of her lips. Yeah, she's in love.

 

Maureen appears a few minutes later in something that can barely be called a shirt and earns another eye roll from her girlfriend. Her hair is straightened, but still a scary shade of red.

 

"It's beautiful, honey bear," Joanne tells her when Maureen all but begs them for compliments in her own way, with her arms spread wide and chest puffed out, eyes begging for their approval.

 

"It looks like you've been scalped and are bleeding out," Mark says under his breath, surprised a girl like Maureen could do something like that to her hair. Then when Maureen looks ready to cry adds, "I love it, Maureen!"

 

How is it he falls for her pout every time?

 

"Thank you, Mark!" Maureen coos right before she pulls him into a tight hug with her breasts squashed against Mark's chest, all but rubbing up against him. Behind her, Joanne makes a face. Mark shrugs, mouthing the words, 'I'll talk to her.'

 

Pushing Maureen back far enough that he can breathe, Mark ignores her searching smile and instead starts waving around the pack of tickets again. "Roger's band is coming back in five days."

 

Maureen and Joanne just keep staring at him. Finally, Joanne breaks the silence with, "That's great, Mark."

 

"He sent me three tickets," Mark explains, opening the envelope and pulling out two of the tickets. "I thought you guys might want to come with me."

 

'For moral support' went unsaid. In the last four weeks, Mark has had to face up to a lot. He loves Roger, Roger may not love him, Roger is sick. Going to Life Support with Collins had helped him work out a lot, but there are still these constantly nagging fears. What if Roger got back and had changed his mind? What if they're supposed to be just messing around? What if... What if... What if...

 

"I don't know, Mark," Joanne says, walking over beside Maureen to look down at the tickets. "I-"

 

It's too late for her to get out another word. Maureen's already squealing, "these are for that Halloween concert!" and pointing at the date on the tickets.

 

Mark nods. "Yeah. Roger's opening for that band. It's supposed to be a kinda big deal."

 

"Kind of big?" Maureen asks, hands on hips and rolling her eyes. Mark, you have no idea. Everyone is going to be there! It's going to be the biggest costume party in New York."

 

Joanne raises an eyebrow. "It's a costume party?"

 

Mark shrugs a bit. "Roger said some people will probably be dressing up."

 

"Oh, please," Maureen says, shaking her head. "Some people? More like everyone."

 

"Well," Joanne says, looking between the tickets and her girlfriend. "I guess the office party isn't that important."

 

Maureen laughs happily, hugging Joanne and planting a sloppy kiss on her cheek. Mark settles for just smiling and saying, "Thanks."

 

"Oh!" Maureen says, almost bouncing on the balls of her feet as she thinks about all the possibilities. "Oh, Mark, I have the perfect costume for you!"

 

*

 

Maureen is insane.

 

Mark tosses his sweater aside, picking Roger's old shirt off the table where'd he'd left it this morning and tugging it back on. It hangs loose around his small frame, enough so that he had to pull it up every few seconds to stop it slipping down his shoulders. It's just enough extra fabric that even lying down on the couch he can gather enough to pull to his nose, breathing the T-shirts strange smell. Like smoke, alcohol, and Roger that hasn't been washed away in months. Mark doesn't care about the slightly funky undertone of the scent. He wraps himself up in the shirt, feeling comfortable and safe.

 

Maureen is insane, but Mark isn't much better.

 

He can't help it if he misses his best friend. What he can help is wearing his friend's clothes around the loft just to get the feel of him. What he can help is hovering around the phone some days, waiting for Roger to call. Or spending half the night trying to figure out what Roger thinks about them.

 

That last one causes him the most problems.

 

Mark sighs, shifting around on the couch and tries to relax. Why did he have to spend so much of his time thinking about Roger, anyway? That and filming seemed to be all he did lately. Not that this is strange for Mark. Better than when he was dating Maureen, and her and filming controlled his life. Or after that, when it was just filming.

 

"Just relax," Mark tells himself. He needs something to take his mind of the stress. Over imaging what Roger is thinking of right now. Over Maureen and her crazy ideas. Over his job and his sexuality and all that complicated stuff.

 

As he's thinking it, his hand is already sliding down his chest. It may not be the best way to forget about Roger, but it sure as hell will take away some of the stress for a while. Mark bites on his lip to hold back a moan, pushing up against his hand. What's so bad about thinking about Roger, anyway? Especially if it's Roger with those beautiful green eyes of his smiling up at Mark while he licks down his chest, pushing his legs apart and-

 

"Fuck." Mark curses, trying to catch his breath as he scrambled for the ringing phone. Shaking slightly, Mark grabs for the phone, not bothering to cover the annoyance in his voice. "Hello?" Great. He still sounds breathless and guilty.

 

There is a few seconds pause, and Mark is all but ready to hang up when he hears a familiar voice. "Mark?" Roger sounds like he just woke up, voice husky and low. Mark grabs onto the table for support because, God, he's pretty sure he could come from that voice alone, and Roger shouldn't be allowed to use that when Mark was just thinking about him. "Hey. What are you doing?"

 

"N-nothing." It would have sounded more convincing if his voice weren't shaking so badly. Mark swallows down a whimper, and he swears his heart is so loud Roger must be able to hear it over the phone. There's a long pause where Mark tries to fix his heavy breathing and Roger just waits and listens. "Hey, Rog, I was just-"

 

"Mmm...." Roger cuts him off, not that Mark minds being cut off from his ramblings. "Know what I'm doing?" He says in that same low, ragged voice. Like the one he uses on stage, but softer and for Mark only.

 

Yes, Mark thinks. Driving me insane.

 

The next sound of the phone is a slight gasp. Mark goes completely still, listening to the slight panting on the other end. Once he's sure his voice won't crack he asks, "Roger?"

 

"Mmm... Thinking about you," Roger answers. Mark would swear he could hear the familiar sound of clothes being pushed aside but who knows, maybe that's all just his over active imagination. He's certainly been thinking about Roger enough lately.

 

"Thinking about you, too." Mark slides back down on the couch, hand running down his chest, and in all honesty he's stopped thinking. Part of him is pretty sure this is wrong, somehow, that he shouldn't be doing this. By the time he's kneading himself through his jeans, that part is long gone. "I- God, Roger."

 

"Mmm..." Roger groans into the phone, and Mark answers with a small, strangled whimper. He's going to come any minute now, just listening to Roger's shallow breathing, picturing the boy on the other end arching off the bed into his hand, moaning Mark's name. "Want me to..."

 

"Yes," Mark answers, already beginning to fumble with the buttons of his jeans trying to peel them back. "Yes, please Roger." Mark moans with his fingers wrapped around himself and eyes closed so that the entire world becomes Roger's ragged breathing, Roger's voice in his ear.

 

The next time he speaks, Mark can honestly hear the smirk in Roger's voice. "You like to beg, Mark?"

 

"Yes," Mark hisses, hardly aware of his own voice. For right now all that exists is Roger and that voice, that low and dangerous voice that is sending coils of heat twisting in Mark's stomach and his hand tightens around him. "Yes, please."

 

"Good boy," Roger purrs and sounds ready to pounce. Mark bites on his lip to hold back a moan, afraid to miss a single word. "Now, I want you on your knees." Mark nods, obediently picturing himself on his knees in front of Roger. His hand begins to pick up pace and by now he's lucky to be breathing at all. "Your hands tied behind you back."

 

"Yes," Mark moans before he can stop himself. It doesn't matter. He's in front of Roger with his hands twisted behind him, his tongue running along Roger's cock and a tight hand twisting in his hair, urging him on.

 

There's a slight pause and then, "You like that?"

 

Mark nods, swallowing before he can find his voice again. "God, Yes." Mark on his knees with Roger in his mouth, bucking and moaning, purring like he does. "Please, Roger. More?"

 

"Mmm... Gonna tie you up when I get home," Roger promises, breathing picking back up again. "Down in front of you, licking and sucking just enough to drive you mad. Make you beg."

 

Mark's a mess, aching into his hand as visions of a dark room swim in his head. Roger with his fingers clutching Mark's hips, looking up at him with glowing green eyes as he swipes his tongue over Mark, teasing and toying around with him when he's so close. "Please!" Mark nearly screams and he doesn't worry that he sounds so desperate because, really, he is and if Roger would just tell him to he's pretty sure he'd come right now. On command. "God, please, Roger."

 

"Want me to fuck you?" Said in that low growl with Mark already so frantic and then more of that sweet voice to the point where he can't breath in any more. He bucks into the air, spreading his legs apart and imagines Roger walking in right now and just taking him, without another word. Pinning Mark's hand above his head, kissing him hard as he enters him. The pain would be worth it if Roger were just inside him right now.

 

All Mark can do is whimper in reply. His hand around the phone is so tight that if he cared to listen he could hear the cheap plastic cracking under his whitened knuckles. Behind his eyelids, everything is black and spotted. Behind his eyelids, everything is Roger on top of him, slamming into him until Mark screams.

 

If Roger says anything else, Mark doesn't hear it. He screams Roger's name, tensing seconds before the pressure that has been coiled inside him bursts open and everything is Roger inside him and touching him and growling at him and by the time Mark is back to reality he's still trembling.

 

After he's caught his breath, he picks the phone back up, pressing it between his shoulder and his ear. "Roger?"

 

There's a long pause before Roger answers. "Mark?" He sounds as out of it as Mark still feels.

 

"Mmm..." Mark snuggles happily back against the couch. He just wants to fall asleep in Roger's arms right now. If that's not possible, then he just wants to pass out here with that voice on the other end. "I love your voice."

 

"I..." Mark opens his eye, scooting up a little on the couch. Roger's nervousness is clear no matter how far away they are. "I, uh, I gotta go."

 

They hang up, and Mark bangs his head back against the armrest, moaning. He'd known that couldn't have been a good idea.

 

*

 

"I can't believe how many people are here!"

 

Mark's ears are still ringing from the sound of Roger's band. Fuck, he'd forgotten how good the guy looks on stage when he's slamming away at his guitar, growling into the microphone like that. That plus the excitement of the colorful crowd jumping up and down, screaming along with the words they knew. It had been contagious. By the end of their set, Mark had worked his way to the front of the pit yelling Roger's song words right back at him. He'd never really been one of Roger's groupies, but with all the energy around him it had felt impossible to just stand in the back and stay quiet like usual.

 

After they rescued Maureen from crowd surfing, Joanne had dragged both of them out of the concert and to the water fountain. "I've had hundreds of cases were someone gets dehydrated at these things, passes out, and gets trampled on," Joanne says as she forces cups of water into both their hands. "They hardly ever win."

 

Mark nods, out of breath and burning up from the inside, and swallows down the water Joanne had bought him. His bones ache from the jumping and he's pretty sure his voice is gone. How the hell did Roger get through five whole weeks of this?

 

Maureen brushes her still straight but back to platinum blonde (white, Joanne called it, with only a tiny hint of yellow) hair from her eyes. "Your make up's running," she points out, running her fingers under Mark's eyes.

 

Without pulling the glass of water away from his lips, Mark swats her hand away. "Fix your girlfriend's horns," he says once the last drop of water is gone from his cup. Joanne is dressed in a business suit with a pair of red horns Maureen had stuffed on her hair right before they left. She's the devil of big business, or so Mark had dubbed her. This had all been before Maureen showed him what he was wearing.

 

Maureen is dressed in a tight white skirt with an equally tight white shirt of some shiny material that makes her look like she's from a bad eighties movie about the future. The only thing about her that says 'angel' is her clip on wings. With an over dramatized sigh, she starts riffling through the little white purse she brought with her. "I can fix it."

 

Mark takes a step back, shaking his head. "I'm hot enough without having another layer of make up caked on, thank you."

 

Chuckling a bit, Joanne looks Mark up and down. "You really expect us to believe you're over heating in that thing."

 

Mark's cheeks go so red it shows through the blush. He tugs at the end of the skirt Maureen had tricked him into (she pouted and whined and basically had just been Maureen, which makes it almost certain that Mark will give in) and ends up pulling too far down. Adjusting the waistline again, Mark refuses to meet Maureen or Joanne's eyes. "I still can't believe you made me wear this."

 

"Ah," Maureen coos, reaching out to fix the curly blonde wig she'd styled onto Mark's head. The wig was the worst part, the slight curls always smacking him in the face or tickling the back of his neck. How could girls stand to have hair this long? Well, the wig or the chunky black boots that feel like their cutting off the better part of his leg's circulation. Or maybe the tight blue shirt that felt like hot plastic melted and rubbing up against his skin. Or the fishnet sleeve things that keep falling down his arm and itch like mad. "I think you're cute."

 

"For a boy," Joanne adds, and both she and Maureen start laughing again.

 

The screams from the main auditorium start picking up again and the rest of the people that had been hanging around the venders start scrambling back to their seats or the pits. Maureen smiles, grabbing Joanne's hand and starts pulling her back in. "Come on, the next band's starting up!"

 

Mark shakes his head, waving Maureen and Joanne on without him. "I'm going to go meet up with Roger."

 

"Are you sure?" Joanne asks, looking rather desperate. The idea of being left alone trying to watch after Maureen is enough to scare anyone.

 

Mark nods, pulling the backstage pass Roger had sent him out from under his shirt. "Yeah. I'll see you guys later. Have fun."

 

Maureen laughs, ignoring Joanne look of slight panic. "We're sure you guys will," she says before dragging Joanne back into the crowd.

 

After a few minutes, nearly everyone has abandoned the little corridor, all the shops closing down while the next band starts up. Mark sighs and the sound can actually be heard. Well, here it goes. Meeting up with Roger after not seeing him for five weeks. After two weeks of being together, or maybe being together, or just messing around. After four days of awkward pauses on the phone because Mark did who knows what to make Roger nervous.

 

Hey, it's just Roger. No reason to be nervous. They've been best friends for years now and nothing can change that.

 

Swallowing down the slight nausea rising from his stomach, Mark tells himself to keep repeating that one.

 

He stops in the bathroom with the plan to pull off this costume Maureen had talked him into and back into some normal clothes. Stepping into one of the stalls, Mark yells, "Fuck!" Right, he doesn't have any normal clothes on him. Growling a bit, he goes to the sink and scrubs off the make up. Maybe he should take the wig off, too. Only he doesn't have anywhere to put it and Maureen promised she'd kill him if he lost it.

 

Great, Mark thinks as he stalks out of the bathroom looking no different than when he went in minus the blue eye shadow, blush, and mascara running down his face, now Roger is going to think he's insane.

 

No, Mark reminds himself as he starts looking around the stage entrance. Maureen is insane. Mark is a push-over.

 

After flashing his pass to more people than he cared to count, Mark finally manage to work his way backstage. It's calmer than he expected. The roadies, tech guys, and security just sit around talking and eating. There aren't any screaming groupies around like Mark had figured there would be. No one was pacing or yelling or in a panic. After five weeks, maybe they just have this show figured out.

 

With the pass dangling around his neck, Mark starts moving through the maze of couches and equipment, looking for that familiar smile or a flash of bleached out hair. He can hear a muffled version of the band up on stage and some of the voices filtering through everyone's walkie-talkies. One guy dressed all in black with glasses thicker than Mark's and bright blue hair smiles at him, looking him up and down before asking, "Hey, who are you looking for?"

 

"Roger," Mark answers without even thinking about it. The guy almost trips back, looking startled as hell. "I'm, uh, Roger Davis's roommate." Giving Mark a strange look, the guy points over to another corner of the room. "Thanks!" Mark shouts back to him, already walking away towards a familiar looking back.

 

When he's a few steps away, Mark's heart starts to race so fast it nearly jumps into his throat. "Roger!" The rock star turns around wearing that smile which just about does it for Mark's heart. Right now, he could die a very happy death.

 

Then the smile hitches a bit. Fuck. This was a bad idea. He can tell just from Roger's look that this was a bad idea. "Mark?"

 

"Umm... Yeah?" Somehow, through the panic, it manages to hit Mark. The skirt. The wig. The general costume. Blushing a deep crimson color, all Mark can think of saying is, "Hey."

 

Slowly, that smile starts coming back to Roger's lips. As it does, Mark finally lets himself relax. "Fuck," Roger says, laughter more than a little apparent in his voice. "It's like looking at a freaky twin sister."

 

Any blood that had been hiding elsewhere in his body heads straight to his cheeks. "I mean," Roger adds, cocking his head to the side and grinning. "A kinda slutty twin sister, but a sister."

 

Mark is going to kill Maureen.

 

"It-" Mark gets cut off when his lips are smashed against Roger's shoulder. Strong hands wrap around his back, hugging him so tight to Roger's chest he's not sure he can breathe.

 

Fuck, who needs air, anyway?

 

Laughing when he pulls back, Roger runs a hand through Mark's wig. "I didn't recognize you without your camera."

 

Mark swats Roger's hand away. Acting annoyed probably would have been easier if he weren't smiling so damn much. "Very clever," He laughs, ducking away and taking another hit at Roger's hand when he goes to pull at the wig.

 

Smirking, Roger twists their fingers together when Mark tries to knock his hand away again. "I thought so."

 

Roger's hand fall from around Mark's back to his hips, keeping Mark close. Not that he had been even considering backing away. "Welcome back to the City," Mark says, smiling up at Roger. Even in the dark, smoky area back stage, he's pretty sure he can see those green eyes spark.

 

"Miss me?" Roger asks, but before Mark can call him and idiot for even asking he's being pulled closer again.

 

Roger's lips are hard and demeaning against his, and Mark's glad he wiped that awful lipstick Maureen had painted over his mouth away. Right now he just wants to be able to feel Roger's mouth against his. Mark wraps his arms around Roger's shoulder and lets himself be kissed because right then Roger is controlling and rough and it's all too good and Mark is all too glad to be submissive for that mouth. He's tugged closer to Roger, close enough that Roger barely has to move to slip a thigh up between Mark's legs, and... God... Rough denim pressing up against him, up under the skirt and,  _ fuck _ , Mark presses back and rides the pressure and it's been too, too, too long since anything felt this good. Mark moans-whimpers-pleads into the kiss and his hips are desperate as the rock against Roger and he's pretty sure - yes, if Roger would just give him a little more than, God-

 

"Hot girl you've got there, Rog."

 

Roger's lips are gleaming with spit, trembling slightly when they pull away from Mark's. His eyes are so dark they no longer look green, half hooded an staring right into Mark's until the other boy's pretty sure he'll moan again just staring into those eyes.

 

Roger flicks off whoever had broken their kiss. Mark runs a hand across Roger's cheek, feeling the hot blush he can't see in the dark. Maybe that kiss had been a mistake, a spur of the moment thing they'll want to take back later. It felt like an explosion. All those thoughts and feelings that have been fucking with his head, he'd just need some way to pour all of that into Roger.

 

For a while the two boys just sit there and try to even out their ragged breathing. Mark never moves back, and Roger never forces him away. When he's caught his breath, Roger breaks the silence hanging between them. "I want to go home."

 

"Me, too."

 

*

 

Getting home isn't quite what Mark expected.

 

What he wanted was to be shoved against a wall with Roger on top of him. What he got was Roger opening the loft door and walking straight to the kitchen without even stopping to look at Mark who trails behind to take off the boots that are killing his feet.

 

"Still empty," Mark says, frowning a bit as he watches Roger sigh and close the refrigerator. This looks familiar. This looks like denial.

 

Roger sighs, brushing back the messy spikes of his hair that had already been ruined by sweating on stage. "I think I-" He cuts off when Mark steps in front of him, grabbing one shoulder to keep Roger in place. If it were a real, honest struggle, Roger could have easily pushed past Mark, but in this case Mark has the advantage. He is determined and horny as hell, and Roger is not about to just walk away from him without explanation.

 

"Where are you going?" Mark's voice is low and serious, borderline frightening as he tightens his hand in Roger's shirt.

 

Roger has the good sense to keep his eyes on the floor, the wall, anywhere but Mark. "I'm tired," Roger mutters to the window. "Thought I'd go sleep in my own bed."

 

It's an unfair thing to say. Mark's hand flexes in the fabric of Roger's shirt. If Roger's actually tired, then Mark is in charge of making sure he gets enough sleep, enough food, enough medicine for the week. Taking care of Roger somehow managed to worm its way into become second nature over that horrible, fucked up year of disease and withdrawal. On the one hand, he's not going to let Roger just walk away from him. He wants an answer, because even rejection is better than wondering.

 

In the end Mark decides a few more minutes is not going to kill Roger. He tightens his hand back in the shirt, knuckles going white against the black material. "Liar." Mark's voice may not command the same attention as Roger's, but he can still be damn scary when he needs to. "I am sick of always avoiding the issue with you, I want a.... What the hell are you laughing about?"

 

Here Mark is trying to be serious and Roger is laughing at him. Worse, the way Roger smiles, eyes crinkled up and licking his lips every now and then, it's not helping Mark's problem from earlier. It's certainly not helping him stay angry with Roger. "I'm sorry," Roger says, still smiling with pearls of laughter escaping through his words. "I'm sorry Mark, it's just the way you're dressed and you're trying to be so fucking serious."

 

Mark rips off the stupid blond wig, tossing it to the ground and fuck Maureen and her overpriced junk. "I am so fucking sick of you!" Roger quits smiling and just stares, shocked that little Mark could produce such an outbreak. This isn't the sane Mark he left behind, though. This is a Mark who has been going crazy for the last five weeks trying to remember his right from his left, and he needs answers. "I am fucking sick of playing all your little games. I put up with the repulsiveness, the self-hate, the fits, the running away, but I am not going to deal with your avoidance issues. I'm not your mother, Roger. I didn't have to stick around no matter what, but I did and it's about fucking time you paid me back!"

 

There's a small pause while Mark takes a deep breath, trying to calm himself. This hardly helps the situation. Seeing Roger staring at him all wide-eyed and helpless and like he has no idea what Mark is talking about. "I can't handle it," Mark says, at least no longer close to yelling. "You fucking back me into a wall and then do nothing. You kiss me and back off before anything real happens. I don't know what the hell is going on in my own fucking head, much less yours. I've been trying, Roger, I have. I've been talking to people... people at Life Support, and I've been thinking and I am so willing to take the risk of... of so much fucking stuff, and now you're back and..." Mark pauses, trailing off as he runs out of words. They've never been the kind of friends to talk things out. They push, they prod, they suggest, but Roger just ends up exploding or Mark grabs his camera and closes himself off.

 

Mark isn't supposed to be the one going insane, but now that it's happened he doesn't know where to go next. He's not like Roger. Not a bundle of emotions just waiting to get forced out by some pretty girl with a candle, who goes with his first instincts and passions without stopping to think. Something about Roger, though, drives Mark to that point. What the hell is it about Roger that makes Mark shout like that? How is it that the songwriter can always get a nice emotional burst from him? More importantly, how does one follow up pouring all of that out at once without looking like an idiot?

 

It hits Mark that he's standing there in a skirt telling his best friend of four years that he loves him. He's a little beyond looking like a idiot at this point.

 

When Roger leans forward to kiss him it's soft, gentle, almost chaste. It's nothing like their backstage kiss, so scared and light that it takes Mark a few minutes to realize he's being kissed at all. But hey, at least it's a kiss.

 

It's not good enough, though. Roger starts to pull back and whatever energy Mark couldn't pour out during his rants comes back to him. He grabs fistfuls of Roger's shirt, tugging him back to Mark's lips. "Harder." Roger never questions him, just leans back in and deepens that last pathetic excuse for a kiss.

 

*

 

Roger doesn't need to breathe.

 

Mark pushes him back against the bed, which makes a loud groan under Roger's weight, and fresh air pours back into his lungs. Roger doesn't like it, though. He likes Mark's lips against his, likes Mark's taste. He doesn't have to wait too long before Mark is straddling his lap, hands twisting in Roger's hair and pulling him in for another deep kiss. A kiss that has become hard, demanding more, and Mark licks and bites and dives into it. Roger falls back against the bed, grabbing hold of Mark's hip and pulling them closer together, not close enough because his jeans and shirt and Mark seems to feel it too, his hands doing their best to touch every inch of Roger's skin. Shirts are tugged at and tossed aside. Lips, teeth, and tongue mash together as every moan and whimper make the kiss that much more desperate. Roger's hands are being pulled off Mark's waist, and he lets Mark do what he pleases. Right now all he can think about is Mark's hips pressed against him, the little wanton sounds in the back of his throat as Roger bites and sucks at his lower lip.

 

It isn't until Mark pulls away and Roger reaches out to keep him in place that he notices his arms stretched out over his head, warm and soft cotton hugging his wrists. He tips his head back, the tails of the white and blue scarf brushing against his nose. He curls his hands into the fabric and pulls. The headboard bangs back against the wall, but the scarf stays in place.

 

Smiling down at him, Mark leans over Roger to plant a small kiss on the corner of his lips. "I practice that, you know." Mark, with his hips slightly raised and that black skirt still bundled around him, those beautiful blue eyes smiling down at Roger and he looks so innocently wicked. Pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses under his jaw, along his neck, Mark mutters, "What do you think?"

 

The scarf doesn't budge when Roger tugs at it again, nails curling into the soft fabric when Mark starts sucking at just that spot and white heat flashes under Roger's skin. "Mark, let me go." It would sound better if he weren't so breathy, if his words didn't end in a gasp because of the sharp pleasure-pain of Mark's teeth digging into him. Biting down on the already red skin and even if it almost hurts, Roger is pushing himself back into it, a whimper torn from the back of his throat while Mark sucks and nips and leaves him marked.

 

Licking his lips and trying to catch his breath, Roger only opens his eyes when the biting stops. He looks back to Mark, silently asking for more but Mark is studying the knot with a certain amount of pride. Too smug. Growling, Roger gives another useless tug. "Come on, Mark." Roger's voice breaks, pushing himself up against Mark. He's not even sure why he's protesting any more.

 

"No," Mark purrs, traveling lower still. Mark's tongue flicks over a nipple before his lips fasten over it and - fuck, he was good with his mouth. With every moan the lust humming through his nerves, twisting his gut, makes it that much harder to remember why the hell he is not supposed to be doing this anymore. "You're mine." His fingers were undoing Roger's jeans, barely brushing up against the clothed erection as he worked down the zipper. Hips arch off the bed, trying to meet Mark's hands but the second the zipper if pulled down Mark yanks the pants away, never giving Roger more than a ghost of a touch.

 

Mark leans back, dragging Roger's pants down his legs and tossing them to the side. Sitting between his legs, Mark with that skirt and flushed skin and coy smile. Roger jerked forward, desperate to touch. Five weeks is too long, and now he is tied to a fucking bedpost when Mark is right there licking at his parted, bruised lips. With a strangled snarl he fell back against the bed, wrist rubbed raw by the cotton of the scarf.

 

Mark's breathing hitches, his clear blue eyes turning dark and hungry. He cups Roger's chin, tipping his head back and leaning in to lick at the shell of his ear, hot breath sprawling across Roger's sweat slick skin. "I love your voice."

 

"Mark," Roger growled, pretty sure he was going to tell Mark why - Oh... Oh, God. Mark definitely shouldn't be able to do those things with his tongue. His nails are scrapping lightly down his chest, down his hips, down his - fuck, so close and Roger, who has lost all control his owns thoughts and breathing and mouth, is moaning and arching off the bed and begging for Mark to give him more.

 

Something in the back of his mind tells him this isn't how this was supposed to, God, but, fuck... Mark is working down his chest and looking up at Roger with dark blue, hungry eyes and no one should look so beautiful like this, innocent and young and desperate and wanton and in control and Roger swallows back another moan because he never knew how perfect Mark could look.

 

He isn't even sure how, but Mark has a condom that he's rolling over Roger and he's looking up at Roger with those dark eyes and says, "I'm not letting you go."

 

"Good." Roger's voice sounds like he'd just come offstage, hoarse and ragged, and Mark moans in reply. He goes back to the bedside table, this time coming back with glistening fingers and a wet smack when he claps his hands together. Settling between Roger's legs, one hand curls around Roger's erection and - fuck, finally some contact and he doesn't wait for Mark to start moving before he's pushing up against the tight circle of fingers - the other. The other presses up between Mark's own legs. The other, Mark slides between his thighs, only stopping for a second to cup himself before...

 

Mark moans, his hand on Roger tightening and he's thrusting into himself. He's leaning back and rocking his hips back against his fingers and Roger is pulling at that damn scarf he's going to burn later. He needs to be touching Mark right now. Now when Mark drops Roger's cock to hold himself up as his hips become more desperate, faster, harder, fingers sliding in and out of himself as he moans and writhes and Roger should be doing that. Roger should be the reason his eyes are closed and cheeks are flushed and whole body trembling. Then... Then, he's bucking off the bed and biting his lips and Roger knows Mark must have...And then, then he's pulling out of himself and falling back on the bed and slowly his eyes start to flutter open and he's looking up to meet Roger's.

 

Roger's eyes, which must be complete black by now. Which must be echoing the hunger and need they find in Mark's. Roger, who is harder than he could ever remember being because it actually hurts, the way his erection is pulsing against his stomach. Mark thrusting into himself with that skirt bundled against his waist. It may not have been something Roger would imagine, but it would be now.

 

Still part of his knows he was supposed to protest this whole thing, but by now he's not conscious off anything expect for Mark and the heat coiled tight in his stomach so it doesn't matter.

 

Mark moves to his knees, and Roger can see his muscles quivering in his legs when he uses them, crawls up to straddle Roger's lap and that skirt falls to cover his and Roger's cocks. He crawls over Roger, lips brushing together but by now both of them are breathing so out of time they don't quite kiss. And Mark whispers, "I don't want you to be afraid of yourself."

 

And Roger answers, "Please, Mark," without ever really hearing what Mark is telling him.

 

This fails to matter, either, because Mark spreads out his legs and leans back. He holds onto Roger's shoulders and pushes back and. Yes. It's been way, way, way too long since Roger's had this and it feels better than he remembered it because this is Mark. Mark who is lowering himself down on Roger's cock, arching back and flushed and biting at his lip and Roger tries not to push himself up as he is pushed up to meet Mark's too slow movement.

 

Unbelievable, how Mark can make every second stretch on and when he whimpers, Roger replies with a ragged groan and he knows he shouldn't like that sound so much, but it sounds wonderful when it's Mark who's whimpering because it's Mark who is finally there. There with his nails digging into Roger's skin and face twisted in pleasure-pain-more. There with Roger inside him, sitting back on Roger's lap and shaking around him as he gets use to being filled like that. There...

 

Yes.

 

Mark lifts his hips, hands running over Roger's body and bed trying to find where he can hold himself up. Mark lifts his hips, licking his lips and chest moving with heavy breathes to match Roger's. Mark lifts his hips and the skirt moves with him in one, fluid motion that draws Roger's eyes to it when Mark thrusts back down.

 

Hard.

 

"Harder," Roger growls, rocking his hips to meet the pace Mark is starting to set. The skirt is bouncing between them as Mark finally grabs hold of Roger's hips and the sheets so he can lift high enough to slam back and - fuck - Roger's whole body is strung tight and Mark is so fucking beautiful when he starts to lose himself to this messy, rough rhythm. He doesn't seem to notice the way the skirt sticks to his overheated skin or the too red flush or the fact that his legs are beginning to shake with the effort it takes to keep thrusting back against Roger, but Roger notices all of this because Mark looks like a vision to him. Mark looks desperate and wanton and like he wants this so bad it hurts as much as the pressure building in Roger. Between that and the tight, fast, heat, hard, thrust of Mark's hips back against his cock and every one of Roger's muscles tensing and pulling him apart and. And. And.

 

Roger's body jerks up to meet Mark's right before he's coming hard and fast and Mark is still riding out the orgasm before his face twists and lips part for a silent, chocked off scream.

 

Mark sits up, shivering and panting as his hips continue pushing back against Roger even after they've both come, waiting for the last tremors to past through both of them. Then he's climbing off the bed, out of his skirt, and pulling Roger's wrists free with a few simple tugs.

 

Groaning when his muscles protest the movement, Roger crawled out of bed to toss the condom, kicking the dirtied skirt under his bed so Mark wouldn't find it in the morning and get rid of it. That done, he fell back into bed without a word. He's sure that if he tried to talk he'd say something stupid like, "Amazing" or "So....". Better to keep his mouth shut.

 

After a few moments of the only sound being both boys' heavy breathing, Mark scoots across the bed, snuggling up to Roger. And really, they're both still so hot from the whole ordeal that Roger has kicked away the blanket trying to get the cold air to chill the sweat covering his skin, but he doesn't push Mark away. He doesn't have the energy, will, or want. So Mark presses up against him, waits a few seconds, and then cuddles up even closer when Roger doesn't say a word or move away.

 

With a kiss to the red mark on Roger's shoulder, Mark says, "I meant what I said."

 

Roger-worn out from the show, the emotions, the sex-makes a small sound of agreement and wraps an arm around Mark and starts drifting off. He can still feel Mark's lips moving over his skin, and it's nice but not nice enough to keep him awake. "I'll be here when you wake up," Mark mutters, and Roger makes another one of those not-quite-word noises. "I'm not going anywhere." It sounds like a borderline threat.

 

With a grunt, Roger twists them around so that Mark is curled up next to him with legs tangled and chests flush together. Roger never opens his eyes just nuzzles the top of Mark's hair, placing a few kisses there. "I know," he answers, trying to swallow back a yawn. Mark sighs and presses a little closer to Roger, finally starting to relax. "Me, too."


End file.
